The Theology of Sleep

THE THEOLOGY OF SLEEP

It seems like we were always asleep, love,
and in our bed the ages passed us by;
perhaps I was God and you were Mary
and our flock turned to Plato and Nietzsche,
left us curled and childlike: the peaceful dead.

Reading stories with your head in my lap,
amused and angry: "if I was their God,
they'd have left the Bible as it was!"
You laugh when you hear I sold the rights,
so desperate to be a starving artist;
"they should have stopped at the King James," you say,
but your hand is on my throat: I cannot speak.
Perhaps I am asleep.

I held you while you screamed into my chest,
helpless rage at news of Samson dead,
of David's child burning in his arms.
We had Bathsheba sobbing at our door,
wordless with her hands outstretched, begging,
begging for mercy or care: God has none,
and Delilah mourns her love, never told.

God makes the sun to stream in the windows,
but our eyes are dull with sleep and pain;
"it's so dark outside," you whisper sadly,
"and you never wrote a happy ending."
Your voice fades: "it was a love story, once."

Her son is dead - she will answer no more prayers.

Jesus wept; his Father only smoothes your hair
and whispers, "it was only a dream, love;

go to sleep."