Shalom
The spear dives through ice water, white and steel. The fish flails like an upside-down crescent moon after a night of red wine. I think I have it figured out, this God-dilemma, as I flop, impaled, made for water but flung on a wooden dock, or is it a canoe? The stars wait to greet me; an absent snowfall. All my memories are a clean cut through the gills. At least in my death I’ll give life to a family somewhere, cooked over a spit, in a hut, in a supermarket. It’s when I think about my flesh that the spear becomes silver mercy, water becomes the pit, and I start to understand why he refused to respond that one time, why he healed that ear, why he chose to wear the crown instead of drowning in it.