​76. Return to Sender

All the poets I ever loved

Got swept away in the waters

Or stuck in ovens or smoked

Their lungs into fits of convulsions,

So here I was, gathering my oceans

And kitchen appliances and cases

Of Virginia Slims.

I thought being good meant

Being bad and working at killing

All the gifts You gave me.

A “return to sender” stamp

Not knowing the Sender

And choking on salty water

And oven grease and the stale

Taste of somebody else’s smoke.

But then You taught me

The truth of this gift

Not meant to squander

But to be given freely,

Not for my attempt at living

Somebody’s death-trapped glory

But for Your sovereign glory alone.