Ode to an Unknown God
You, who must content yourself with stolen praise,
Your many names pressed into muttered curses. Such a change
From faceless figures struck in silver and gold,
Bronze altars and eternal fires
Devouring wood removed from profane groves,
Hymns chanted in incense-robed rooms
While blood pools on cool stone floors,
Wounds they thought would win your favour, a dagger
Carving out a space for you to shape into a home.
Now we know better. We’ve pulled down the songs
The statues the stones, wiped the blood
From our knives. It’s so much cleaner
When the desire we must feed is our own.
Still - you remain, lodged in the cracked
Longings of our mullioned hearts, a driven stake
Surrounded by trampled grass. So I ask:
Tether us to your grace.
Matt Escott lives in Toronto with his wife and 6 year old twins. For the past 10 years he has worked with youth experiencing homelessness, and is currently developing a mentorship program for youth in foster care. He has been published in Ekstasis, OneArt, Stone Poetry Quarterly, and Heart of Flesh.
Amethyst Review 