When Phaeton rode his father’s snorting horses
the earth bore flame. One end opens towards hell
the other closes on heaven. One of the men
I am nurses his rage with bottles of toxin. He cannot
hold his flame’s center between both far ends.
Clench-jawed, he bores through women to reach
the worm inside himself. Mother told me
to listen to the Lord when I pray. I said
I do, but he does not speak. Not the earth
nor the tribes he scorched but Phaeton himself
I pity. The man pries a crucifix from the church
so Jesus won’t remind him he must die
to be reborn. And sometimes both far ends
close and I grip nothing as hard as something
I should let go. Like the man. Mother said
Hell is on the inside, that the Lord does not speak
because he listens. And that is what you hear.