The Heaven of Mud

Bless this necessary sadness,
this miraculous sadness,
this gigantic absence,
his heaven of mud,
stampeding like music
down into the empty spots.
Bless the empty spots.
Bless the empty.

The uncoveted, unbent,
unlusted, unhoped, unwild.
Bless the depression farmers,
suicide gardeners,
lonesome priests
of the church
of the Lord of Rooms, Lord,
bless me.

Bless me with your tusks,
your claws,
your fangs,
your jaws,
tear me apart, Lord,
bless me with the tearing –
I am ready for the tearing,
I am ready for the tearing,
the tearing,
the tearing,
bless me with the tearing,
Lord, scatter me through the field
until I sink into the dirt.

Until trees begin to grow from me.

Until rivers begin to begin from me.

Until I am nothing
but a disaster of seeds
glowing in the bellies of crows.

— Jeremy Radin, from “The Heaven of Mud,” Slow Dance with Sasquatch

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