I.Job

I, Job, sat in my filth, but I knew there must be more:

the rotting flesh and the sickly warm stench,

the dead beasts, the burned children,

the earth-swallowed crops.

The three made sucking sounds when they saw me:

their despair groomed and inexorable,

formed into petrified thoughts--

finally they left me among my wreckages.

I, creature, I, Job, heard the sound first, my eyes buried in my lap:

drops of stinging water hit next; out of the straining air

I heard the roaring of the Other, the Over-all-others.

I curled up, a wounded animal.

Images from the Voice filled my mind:

the great Leviathan, tamed, the great seas, untamed,

and the tiniest quark, the humble foundation required

for the making of a leaf.

I, nothing, I, Job, lifted my head and threw it back:

the wind lashed my cheeks, burned my eyes;

I sent my hands out, opened my chest to the Voice;
the Whirlwind came to whisper—