In the Rain

American Poetry Review, The, Sep/Oct 2005 by Moss, Stanley

There are principles I would die for,

but not to worship this God or that. To live

I'd kneel before the Egyptian insect god, the dung beetle

who rolls a ball of mud or dung across the ground

as if he were moving the solar disc or host across the sky.

I would pray to a blue scarab inlaid in lapis lazuli

suggestive of the heavens.

The Lord is many. I sit writing at the feet of a baboon god

counterfeit to counterfeit. My Lord smiles, barks and scratches,

all prayers to him are the honking of geese.

To live I'd pray to a god with the head of a crocodile

the body of a man or a woman: our father who art in river,

holy mother dozing in mud, sunning thyself,

look on your young in danger, open your crocodile mouth,

the doors of your cathedral, let us all swim in.

We are gathered by the river, nesting on your tongue, swim us to safety.

Believers and unbelievers rejoice together in the rain.