A Name for Ourselves Burning and brick and bitumen a stench of ambition and untested brotherhood common as language. “A name for ourselves” And what was that name? Forgotten, abandoned like the city, a broken fist raised to the heavens and slapped down. “Its name was called Babel”—an appellation not built, but breathed out of confusion, bestowed not for the accomplishments of man, but of God. I’ve not seen the plains of Shinar, but I too have feared dispersion and craved to graze the floor of heaven with grasping fingertips. Have ached for recognition built with boasting hands blistering with self-import. I’ve not spoken a universal tongue, but I too have danced to sirens’ song of camaraderie, ignoring the steady steps of obedience. Have drunk the wine of autonomy, becoming intoxicated with names. Unless the Lord builds the house, those who labor, labor in vain. How much more the city? How much more the tower? How much more the name?
Ryan Helvoigt is a poet living in Durango, CO with her husband and two children. She holds an MDiv in missions from The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary. Her work has appeared in Fathom Magazine.
Amethyst Review 