The Savage God

And the rains fell and the rivers rose, the rivers rose, the skies opened,
the heavy gray opened and the waters poured down, fell from the skies,
washed down day after day—ravines, creeks, hillsides—fell
on the old tired houses, weary people, filled our shoes,
our mouths, eyes, our cellars
 
And still the rains fell and the creeks came and the big rivers came,
the slow placid rivers came up.
Monongahela came up, Youghiogheny,
Allegheny, Cheat, Ohio came up and they were terrible
 
And beautiful when the beast awoke and came walking
through our towns, our streets, and trees lost their grip on life,
the old tenacious roots, 200 years in the black soil,
gave up went spinning, tumbling through the waters, oaks
and black walnuts bigger than two men
could reach around and still the rivers rose, snapped
steel cables as strong and thick as any hope, broken,
 
Broken, sent great barges turning in slow ponderous dance to the embrace
of bridges and still the rivers rose,
rose as the beast, the savage god awoke, the god
that had slept for decades, the god we had thought
was banished, but no, it had only been asleep and now
walked the earth, the earth that was given over
to water, to the waters that ran deeply through our lives, that poured
into our churches, washed over the altars of the pale and lonely god of love
and the older god reclaimed them,
 
With his dark and fiercer passion, rose
and took what he wanted and we
and the earth were carried away, until finally
once again he slept. But we, we would never be the same,
we who watched the rivers rise, watched the god awaken.



‘The Savage God’ appeared in
Central Avenue issue #18, May 2004