enough with miracles,
enough with celebrations of finding that final limitless
jar of oil
we tiptoe through the polluted wilderness on day nine
shoes in hand
hoping to stumble upon
a burning bush,
while our Cassandras continue to hurl themselves
their newborns
off the city walls,
their broken bodies like a final sticky note
hanging unnoticed on the bathroom mirror:
lisp or not,
its time to go to the Pharaoh
and make a righteous noise.
