Moonlight drizzles over the eaves
as I stand under stars,
mosquito free

Every secret of the Milky Way unwinds,
unfurled across the sky tonight;
every nebula proclaims its name
in inky haze and cursive light,

and the strangest surprise
is that nothing is biting at my neck
as I incline my soul toward splendor.

I can’t comprehend it;
I’ve lost the language
for beauty sans pain.

I’ve spent my whole life
soldiering through so much blood sacrificed
for every ounce of glory gained—
a hundred mosquito bites per leg—
that I almost want to pull away
from this hint of a gift
with no shadowed price,
the air too comfortable, too calm
for me to trust
this type of bedtime story.

Some say that God’s heart toward me
is all goodness and gladness
rather than suffering.

But I don’t know how to hold that.
I look past the galaxies
into the blackness,
and that’s how I see God:
I squint past the obvious grace,
the neon joy
and the bright splash of planets
to focus on those parts of my past
where I floated in darkness,
lost in the gaps.

Suppose that God
isn’t the one
who sends me mosquitoes.
Suppose He tucks the stars
under my chin like a blanket
and blesses me into bed,
holding His breath
to see if I’ll relax against His chest
and sleep. I was never prepared
for a religion like this.
I’m still tense, but I’m trying
to lean in a little,

to know Him more in
quiet twilights and caramel drinks,
less in duty and grief
and Holocaust war.