There is a fist-sized rock
that rests above
the grave of the baby birds
that God watches over.
Today I wish I could
take it up from its hallowed ground
(for if His eyes are on the sparrow...
then all this land is holy)
and lob it straight and high
with all the cumulative heartbreak and rage
(and the one year in middleschool
where I was allowed to play Little League
because they didn't have enough boys)
straight into his stupid glass house
with the see-through floors
and transparent walls
and the perpetual harp playing
that barely masks the eternal dirge
that rises wailing from this
hump of earth underneath which
are broken wings and silent beaks
and baby birds that died
while God watched them.
I hope it breaks all the windows
and leaves shards on the floor
and everyone needs to walk carefully
lest they be cut by the tiny slivers of my grief.
