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The Absurdity of Sundays
By Lisa Markowitz
I’d like to think
A breaking place is beautiful
For what downs the hammer,
What swells after the blow.
After all, a day won’t stop to fix the wound.
Cruel sun pries the place behind the eyes,
Continues in coffee.
I don’t know how men watch football
Or if the universe goes on—
Into each other’s polished bodies
They go, kicking and spinning.
The last time I felt really human
I was sprawled on the toilet
With a bladder infection.
In media res (ever in it),
There was clasp and unclasping.
I knew what was making me feel.
Once I found God.
I went to church five days a week,
Happy as a pig in shit
For such words
Having found their way
Into the world—it was
The warmest winter.
It may have been the way
The hills made my stomach bob
Driving by the mushroom soil and llamas,
Wanting to understand what people do
For a living.
What happens when there is no push
Forward, no voice to urge me on?
Lately it seems money is the world,
And life is what to do in exchange for it.
I waddle toward creation,
Frightened and dirty—
There is much to be made.
Still, I don’t know which it is,
A church service or a football game.
These crowds would look like polka dots
To someone living in a cloud,
Many men hollering.
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