A Prodigal

. . . If I make my bed in hell, behold, You are there.
—Psalm 139: 8

It takes a while for you to know what nought is.
You answer Thou shalt not with your unless . . .
You sell your birthright for a mess of pottage.

You dream of mansions, settle for a cottage,
but end up with the pigs a sloppy mess.
It takes a while for you to know what nought is.

You hate dad, blame your mom, and love the godless.
The naked skin is worth it, you confess.
You sell your birthright for a mess of pottage

because you crave the owl’s no in knowledge.
You’re hungry, after all, under duress
it takes a while for you to know. What nought is

is make-up’s end, the final lie. Prodig-
iously we pray for you: Repent, say “Yes,
I sell my birthright for a mess of pottage.”

O almost ghost, you self-inflict stigmatas.
You can’t help darkening in carelessness.
It takes a while for you to know what nought is.
You sell your birthright for a mess of pottage.

—John Poch