Читать книгу I Call to You from Time - Judith Sornberger - Страница 10

On the way to the monastery I get pissed

at a guy parked too long at the pump

while I wait to fill my tank. I see him

inside laughing with his girlfriend

and the cashier, purchasing lottery tickets,

which, I guess, is his form of prayer.

But I don’t care. My motor is running

and he’s in my way. I have to get prayed

in by the guest porter by 4:30

or I’ll miss supper and Vespers.

I don’t yell or anything, but how

is he supposed to answer when I criticize

his lack of courtesy? Fuck you, you bitch,

he says, grabbing his crotch, to which

I respond by flipping him the bird

as I roar off, heart beating like wings,

pondering the way a simple case of being late

fueled by impatience can flare into a conflagration.

And wondering how, in just 45 minutes,

I can be transfigured, become a woman

worthy of the Psalms.

I make it there in time, though my heart

is still revving in my chest as the cantor leads

us in chanting one of those psalms asking

God to smite our wicked foes,

exulting that God’s victory is ours.

Ordinarily, I squirm through such words,

not wanting to add my voice to them,

but now I sing, Let the mischief of their lips

overwhelm them! Let burning coals fall on them,

stifling a giggle in the shame of recognition.

Who isn’t more at home in this setting

with the sentiments that follow: Too long

I have had my dwelling among those

who hate peace. I am for peace.

The psalmist’s schizophrenia has always made

me crazy, until today when I hear the words

echoing each tone of my soul, see my

ugliness and beauty mirrored there,

asking along with everyone around me:

If you, O Lord, mark iniquities,

who would be left standing?