Jesus said Papa

I don’t feel You. 

I don’t feel right. I hear
nothing
on the lines where You 
usually call. 
                       Unless quote You unquote
are the peripheral zigzag of ocular migraine, 
scintillating scotoma, that has smote me since I was twelve. 

Arcs white or colored,
fine interleaving bands and ribbons that force me
to lie prostrate with the shades drawn, 
and when I was younger to pull away from all of them,
my only comfort to touch myself in the dark. 
                                                                                   Unless 
mental afflictions are themselves 

enlightenment, then yes, Your
comfortless loyal voice, my subduer, abaser, dishonorer,
I hear it, while suck 

I on sweet ice. If that’s Your voice, You
call me, You find me, offer me to drink
from that cup, everywhere
I’ve ever tried to hide. 

Patrick Donnelly | Jesus said Just when I think 
Contents | Mudlark No. 61 (2016)