Terry Lucas




Swords, Seed, Gods, & Gold

God came to Abram in heat
of daydream. Said, get thee up

& I will show thee my gash
in the ground, my flowing

River Jordan. Abram woke
his wives, his idols, his pride

of lies, hiding in a cave
named right temporal lobe. Set out

on a journey to the other side
of the fertile scythe with all he owned—

swords, seed, gods & gold—
seeking the wound that heals

not, the chthonic angel in a slot
machine in the middle of a desert

called religion. Then Abram dreamed
he pulled on God’s sweaty handle,

spun his drums until they lined up
as three persons—father, son, & holy

mother. Abram heard a voice
deep in the clatter of God’s change

back & forth from one gender
to another. Said, because you bet

on me, you are cursed
with my semen. In your mouth

it will become sermon—a milky
way ever dying, ever reborn,

a vision not mine, not yours—
wandering in this desert forever.