from a poem I’m writing about my brother

He took to evangelism early.
Japan first. He always got sick, yet
stayed and ministered to the temple-goers,
stood before the small gods and sang
in a language that the people did not understand,
unless he were to sing “Hotel California”
the teenage anthem of the Japanese.
While his fleet scaled Mount Fuji,
he got lost in a casino,
wandering the smoked halls
and the throngs of women
draped like silk on fat businessmen.
He had been praying with someone,
praying they would understand,
that he could speak their tongue,
so justice could be done.

Then the bees in Mozambique,
they swarmed his team,
a yellow dust encroaching.
Yet against the tiny wings buzzed
the silent shock of prayer,
electrifying the deadly, tiny needles
of these teeming bodies, gathered
together around my brother.
The Spirit said “feed on me!”
to the Gadarene bees,
and the villagers stood
in awe at the shaman’s failed decree.


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