day nine

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.