Charlie McCarthies, All
God isn’t a ventriloquist. He’s worse.
He holds us firmly in his grip, His hand
Inside, more deep than heart or mind. Averse
To everything outside His Triple Band,
He is especially opposed to aid
In talking. Throats impeded by that fist
Which works our strangled jaws till they’re afraid
To find their words, we feel like a mute cyst.
He’ll not assist our voice at all. We gasp
Attempts to vocalize our little truth,
But since he has our tongues in his fast grasp
We rattle silent lips against dumb tooth.
..We try to write some poetry to touch
Our souls; he tightens up his inward clutch.