Sometimes I offer to make a deal with God.
“I’ll tell you about my resistance to prayer,” I say,
“If you’ll explain the Holocaust.”
God declines to comment, and the lawyers
make their prepared statements on his behalf.
I kind of hate when he does that.
I love God best, I confess,
when I catch him slumped over the bar,
his tongue soaked in whisky,
the past and present oceans dribbling uselessly
onto his shirt collar.
I can forgive a God like that, and there is every chance
he might do the same for me.
There is much that has happened, there is much,
much to be forgiven,
but nothing to be said.