sonnet for the day of the lord

you will be in your living room, singing melismas.

everything you utter is a prayer. your tears

water the lush earth as an offering to the lord.

from out of nowhere, a Chevy Caprice pulls up,

the windows roll down, St. Michael starts blasting.

in a drawn-out falsetto, he sings, the day of the Lord

is a bitter motherlover. you look out the window.

the world is on fire. every moment is spent on your knees.

everything you utter is a prayer. dona nobis pacem.

out of nowhere, a Chevy Caprice pulls up, Michael

starts blasting. everybody hits the floor. the Caprice

pulls away, Mike’s falsetto rings: if you think you’re

holy now, baby, wait until tonight. it feels good when

you cry out. your battered lungs wail a soulful tune.