What I Miss Most About Hell

is prayer.
I'd pack a plastic bottle

with vodka, drive
to the crag of my life—

the parking lot of a pancake house—
and scream. I prayed

like everyone I loved was on fire.
The bright, violet blob

I called God
would forgive the atrocities

roared in ethanol rage
while I'd shake like a dog

demanding answers
from the maker of figs:

why the sycamore fruit
sweetens only when bruised,

the way a fist will
ripen a child.

- Eugenia Leigh (from Waxwing)

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