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  • Sabbath
  • Lynn Domina (bio)

God reclines and God's dream mists the sloping earth. Dusk slides across the Himalayas, Alps, softens the             Appalachians. Every creature, every landscape, every earthquake and volcano, monsoon, hurricane, every constellation, every story abides now in God's imagination, God who,            lingering in a grove of spruce, calls out to cardinals and finches each in its own language, whispers to spiders and            mites, runs both hands through hair curling prodigally from the heads of women and men. God reclines in the cool blue dusk, dozes, and remembers: all shall be well. Parched leaves uncurl into mist, and God's dream hovers, calmer than impulse, easier than thought, in the minds of nocturnal creatures: hoot owl, possum, bat, tiger. A night-blooming cereus mingles its fragrance with sand and chameleon, fossils of extinct sea creatures. God exhales evenly, God's dream a prophecy or memory, a wish. Against the rules, eternity's            incomprehensible meaning, God dreams of sequence, a beginning, an end, stories engaging the time between. From the west a man rises to say labor begets rest, while a woman facing east speaks of grief, each sabbath a measure of loss. Near dawn, God dreams of meteors, their white and red trails, imagines patterns in the star's haphazard distribution, each figure - bear, hunter, twin - immersed in story, every manner of thing concluding with its own phrase, "the end," yet ending, God dreams, each in its own way, well.

Lynn Domina

Lynn Domina has published poetry in Crazyhorse, Quarterly West, and the Marlboro Review. Her first book, Corporal Works, was published by Four Way Books.

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