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I Ghazal Down Men While God Listens
by Tralen Rhone

February 1, 2021 Contributed By: Trey (Tralen) Rhone

Basilica of Sacre-Coeur
Basilica of Sacre-Coeur

What must I say to speak to you, God?

Hell awaits me, but what can I do, God?

 

Fallacies and many men’s phalluses have occupied my mouth, 

but look at how many scriptures and quotes my mouth knew, God.

 

On my hands and knees with an arched back

taking in all of these men and all of you too, God.

 

I’ve forsaken your name on floors, on beds, 

in cars, in closets, but never on a pew, God.

 

Recently, I told my partner to squeeze

my carotid artery. I want to turn blue. God

 

Dammit. What am I even trying to say?

This is just a list of all of my taboos, God.

 

I forgot to ask. Are you from the Old or New Testament?

I think my chances are better with the “brand new” God.

 

The one that the Episcopals at Pride talked about.

Said come to their service but that fell through, God.  

 

If it’s the old God, then I already see the fire

and brimstone. Guess that’s my cue, God.

 

Give me one more chance to prove my worth, God. Maybe

I can make it and be known as the guy who blew God.


TREY (TRALEN) RHONE is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at Florida International University. Tweets infrequently at @TreyRho.

Filed Under: Poetry Posted On: February 1, 2021

Further Reading

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With one of those train station dime store books, he settled into his nest. He saw how the hotel governesses banished him with their disapproving stares. The nest I’ve just mentioned bribed him with its privacy, it was a fine spot shaded by delicate twigs, above him and his book, his dreaming, the putti dip […]

Helpless
by Katherine Riegel

What matters? The last of a species died lonely today and still the stars spun, like everything spins, helpless. They say we should not attribute human feelings to nonhumans   but isn’t helplessness universal? The car door helpless to stop before it crushes fingers,   the naked politician helpless to swing that thing between his […]

The Past by Henryk Cierniak
(Translated from Polish by John Guzlowski)

The house was nothing just a building site, thirteen years ago Remember it? It’s still nothing my son is sixteen How can I forget? He’s nothing but an ordinary boy actually a bit troublesome instead of putting up insulation he and his friends go to the village he walks like he’s some kind of god […]

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