from the yawning of genesis, from the very first verses therein, god lifts himself, lunges, takes on his cross to golgotha; from the formlessness and void he knows his limit. it’s the flesh of nazareth. first he creates, then, right then, he leaves for the lonely roman field

things the old testament never resolves—the hurt of the charmers, those the lord raises to receive his visions, how they try to kill themselves and he refuses to let them; the nontranslation of various referents, like סֶלָה, like nephesh, hallelu; the verses he’s quiet in—how he flits to and from them, going from therapeutic listener to nothing other than the holiest hole, a foreign loss; how (not if) children are killed, their fathers’ knives thick on throat; finally, the thing that lack resolution more than the rest: how you fall into the narrative. is there room for you herein? are you comfy?

the locusts eat years and years, you know. only then can god repay you for the losses

the lord’s charmers—his prophets, his vision-havers, his men—run from him. they refuse the call, they try to kill themselves, though they feel his lure, his thrall. this is how love goes. the fascination is repulsive, the intrigue only fun if you’re nervous for it

you’re on the couch, fell in, facing only mural, tapestry, cultural remain. the psychoanalyst remains hidden, to your left, far-off, removed. the holy of holies is like this, too—a veil, fibers of goat hair yarned and knotted, keeping you from the father that only ever voyeurs-in on your babbling. the lord is listening for your neuroses

oh, you have to have faith. haven’t you realized? in the night, lonely and longing, the reciting of verses long over, it’s only you and him

the throat is loyal to the verse of the father. it is one thing to read the holy narrative out loud. it is another thing to read it to yourself, to hum it, to get vocal. the lord, he lords, over your utterances, your ruaḥ; his hands are on your neck. you need to rely on other registers of your voice, then

the first thing you forget, in grief, is how far horev is from egypt. the next thing you forget is their voice, rough and lulling. how your name feels in it; even the voicemail loses likeness. the last thing is how the lord’s touch feels on your inner thigh, knitting vows you never consent to

“from bethlehem,” the charmer of the lord recites, “the ruler, the king—he’ll come from bethlehem. from the root of yesse, viney like hyssop, natal to here.” years later the lord returns, likes the feel of a mother; yes, he is the heir of nazareth, natal to bethlehem. men from the east, charmers of other kinds, follow a rising cluster on the horizon. gaspar’s feet lurch, the myrrh reminding him of his lover’s funeral. the other two feel it, too. in the lure of the night they follow a thing no longer legible to the child and his mom. they offer them gold, frankincense, that yucky myrrh. the mother is a teen girl, they notice. the child has his father’s eyes, they think. they’re right in this, you know; that’s the epiphany of it

the lord’s over it; he’s rolling his eyes in the face of crummy, violent kings. he’s raising yogis, shamans, charmers that hate him. loathe him, even; he likes the feel of the hate, though. he likes the feel of cringy, clingy, creeping things. there’s this formlessness in the yawning of genesis, a feminine goddess named tehom, that he’s running from for the rest of his verses. then there’s this vampiric, yummy man in the nile that he’s never running from, though he’ll later regret it. the old testament is nothing less than the lord falling in love, over, over, over, over it

god touches the inner thigh, violently, thoughtfully. he lingers. there is nothing holier than fucking, though this comes close

the fantasy of god’s hate—in the old testament, the lure of the lord is that he’s violent, rotten. that his vows have the feel of curses, that his love has the feel of cutspo. he is quieter, though; he is a lover. like velvet, like latex, he’s gooey on the flesh. longing is never not yucky, though for him, there’s a natality in it. in genesis he’s fallen for you

in the close of things, they tell you that you lived the only life you knew how to. faith is like this, too—you kept the only kind of faith you could. god never needed more from you than this

i am the prophet’s lover. he returns to me covered in god’s cologne

unrequited love in the old testament—there are those in love with men that love others, vision foggy (like leah), those in love with men that only tolerate them (like sarah); those in love with men that cannot return it (like michal), in love with men that only love themselves (oh, michal). there are those neglected in the kind of fleshy, off-line love they long for (elisha, samuel); and there are those unloved through the narrative’s hate (gomer; saul). finally, though, there is the kind of love that has no requiting. this is god’s love, heavenly love, real loneliness; you know the feel of it, i think