mud and murder
persist
despite a heavy dislike
for both among most
who call themselves
children of men

and the children of God
have been told and
expect
not to see an end
to such things until
the dark ages give way

no, truly give way
to what is meant to come after

with the glory of my Father’s son
descending upon clouds
shot through with
prismatic glory
or perhaps just ordinary
sunlight
shimmering through a drizzling, autumn rain

the cold and wintry kind
that has a person
gathering their sweater
tight around their bones
feeling long and thin, and aching deep
as if the marrow has been pulled out

and only hollowness remains

in that, there is no cure
except
His arms stretched out
and beckoning
soon, to come
to rest around your shoulders
bringing the warmth and shine

of stars, and stars, and more stars

This article appears in January 2025.

Gretchen Tessmer has published short stories and poems in Nature, North American Review, New Welsh Review and Strange Horizons.