Love Letter
               (with apologies to Madeleine L'Engle)
Dear God, 
   I hate you.
Love, Keith.

I write my prayers on water 
pour them under your door 
and swim a while.

When I am angry with you I know that you are there
even if you do not answer my pounding at your door
even when your butler opens the door an inch
and flaps his thousand wings in annoyance
at such an untoward interruption 
and says the master is not at home.

Dear Keith,            (This is how I treat my friends,
      I love you.       he told me once. No wonder you have 
Hate, God.              so few of them, Lord, I replied.)


I cannot turn the other cheek.
It takes all the strength I have to keep my hands from choking.

   The drunk ran over Ryan (on her way to buy cigarettes,
   she claims) and her friends feel sorry for the murdering bitch.

   Our work has been stolen and the Keatings say the thieves' 
   taxes are too high.

   The soldiers crush liberty and George tells us that we'd really
   hurt them if we didn't let them make our Reboks.

Me? I'm turning in my ticket and my letter of introduction.

You're supposed to do the knocking. 
Why do you let my heart seep away?

How can I write you to tell that I'm angry  
when the night is so dark that I can't find my pencil?

I take hammer and nails and tack my message on two crossed 
scraps of wood:

    To the Lion:

    Is it too much to ask you to bother to be?
    Just show your hindquarters and let me hear you roar.

Love,
keith brian gallagher