Asylum Prayer by Lauren Scharhag

Say, God is meaningless,

unless They know our pain.

Say, this is the selling point of Christ,

a god who is also a bleeder,

a laborer, a partaker of bread, 

a refugee. 

Say, this is my exhaustion:

searching for the godlike 

in the faces of corruption,

in the places of razor wire.

Say, mothers, your milk

dries as tears. Say, children,

we are all out of lullabies.

Say, Samaritans, keep your gifts. 

Say, this desert air 

is the breath of God. 

If you want baptism,

here is the indifferent river,

the toilet basin.

Say, this want 

is an emanation of God.

Say, the Dollar Almighty 

has its chosen people. 

Even the haven of light 

will be denied, 

the all-knowing motion sensors,

the bulbs that rob the weary 

of sleep, dreams, time,

those most fundamental of healers.

Say that despair is the soul-killer, 

the looking away. Say, we must 

be bigger than God. Say, 

we must do what God cannot.

We must be here, in the flesh. 

Our persistence must be so great,

even They will be humbled. 

Lauren Scharhag is the author of fourteen books, including Requiem for a Robot Dog (Cajun Mutt Press) and Languages, First and Last (Cyberwit Press). Her work has appeared in over 150 literary venues around the world. Recent honors include the Seamus Burns Creative Writing Prize, three Best of the Net nominations, and acceptance into the 2021 Antarctic Poetry Exhibition. She lives in Kansas City, MO. To learn more about her work, visit: www.laurenscharhag.blogspot.com