God, I cannot see

Abigail Kloha

Earth bloats with gray pus, 
city lights swelling smoky tumors
so I cannot see the stars,
my cradle mobile of constellations.
Chemical rivers are too murky,
flaking plant flesh too dry,
eyes of animal corpses too plastic
to reflect even the memory of starlight
and, God, I’m so frightened
I cannot see the cradle mobile You hung. 

I know You can swaddle Earth 
and comb out the oil pipes, 
shake rain from my cradle mobile,
pour flowers from the lines of Your palms,
coax animals out from my dust, 
and press this planet to Your lips
to leave us honey-fresh air. 

But I cannot see
if You’ll do this soon
or if I’ll come home to You
mistrusting smokeless skies
and frightened of clear water,
with no memory of the cradle mobile
You strung for me.  


Abigail Kloha is a student at the University of Iowa studying creative writing, Spanish, and translation. Her work has been published in The Foundationalist and the 2021 Write Michigan Anthology and is upcoming from Spires Magazine. She enjoys reading the Bible, drawing, and learning languages.