by Luke Harvey
You asked where God is and meant it
as sincerely as your nightly request
for a glass of water by the bed.
So I said—with equal sincerity—“Well,”
wishing in the silence to draw up
something deep and profound
I never found. You pried. So instead
I tried, “the words of this world
are in the business of suggesting
the next word and the next
world, like kicking a pebble to pick the path
or asking a question until you find
not an answer but your way
home.” Or that’s what I would have
said—a cryptic response but one
that rang true somewhere below
the brain, like the God about whom
you asked—had I not spilled your water
glass, that constant presence
breaking in and soaking through
your sheets, our very skin.
Luke Harvey lives with his wife and two daughters in Chickamauga, GA, at their home, Oak Haven. His first collection, "Let’s Call it Home," is a member of the Poiema Poetry Series by Cascade Books, and other work has appeared or is forthcoming in journals such as Spiritus, Christian Century, The North American Anglican, Delta Poetry Review, and elsewhere. Luke works primarily as a high school English teacher, but also runs the Oak Haven Writing Workshops and works on the poetry editorial panel for The Rabbit Room.