God’s hand slices through the sweaty summer air, stuffs dollars in a plastic cup and smooths wet, matted hair— tender and then gone. Did anyone else see that? There it is again— God’s hand punches a hole in daylight, cups a couple cheeks, pets a dog and waves at me —at me? then swipes away. I rush to the spot of manual apparition and inspect this punctured, shabby veil It’s not textile divinity— it’s human I find, a cigarette scented patchwork of city lies and street emissions, woven with noon-drooping resolve. We’ve stitched ourselves in— through this sickly mesh comes God? Yes, there— between fibers of mortality I glimpse it. God’s hand tickles the veil, follows a sticky seam until— pointing— we’re finger to finger. My hand yanks the veil and now we’re eye to eye.
This poem was originally published in Irreantum 21.1. Irreantum is the literary journal for the Association for Mormon Letters. Issues are published multiple times each year and feature many different types of writing (poetry, essays, short stories, plays, reviews, comics, music, short videos, and literary criticism, to name a few).
Sarah Emmett is a public librarian in Boston. Originally from Utah, her poems have also appeared in Inscape, Dialogue, and Irreantum.
To receive each new poem published by Wayfare, first subscribe to Wayfare and then click here to manage your subscription and select “Poetry.”
 | A guest post by
|