god tried to leave a voicemail with the front desk,
begging for a place to hide from the ghosts of our demands —
a fiendish ramble of every request, every greedy
demand disguised as a prayer in his name —
but the answering machine is full.
the workers yell,
room service, coming in,
por favor, dios, déjanos curar tu dolor,
please god, let us heal your pain
but the door’s barricaded
by a pile of urine-soaked towels
and empty bottles from the minibar.
the women roll their eyes beneath the door
to see if god is still there, perhaps
asleep on the battered love sofa,
but the dust on the ground
clouds their vision,
cuts their irises.
oh, lord, please forgive us.
there was a time when our hearts weren’t poisoned
by the cyanide of apple seeds.
sighs of the maids are sent through the vents
begging for god to answer
dios, es hora de dejar este lugar,
god, it’s time to leave this place
but he can’t hear,
cobwebs in the air ducts,
cobwebs in his ear canals —
we expected god to answer us
but never thought to do the same.
his voice waivers a bit before cutting in again —
i can hear him calling
in the motel room above mine —
and for a moment i hear him cry.
he never meant for us to become this way,
running to poisoned orchards
when we were banished from the apple trees.
i suppose they should have cleared the answering machine
but instead they sit in the breakroom
snorting crushed apple blossoms.
i press my ears to the ceiling,
trying to listen to god
move around the floor above
but he’s gone silent,
having lost hope
we will ever come to find him.
but a part of me feels something much worse
has happened, that the manager checking his room
will grieve for years to come, screaming in the streets:
dios está muerto, y toda la esperanza está perdida,
god is dead, and all hope is lost
for a part of me knows already the fate
that’s befallen our god
overdosed on apple seeds
in that lonely motel room.