The Gods We Worship Live Next Door

THIS IS A POEM WRITTEN BY BIENVENIDO N. SANTOS.

The gods we worship live next door. They’re brown 

and how easily they catch cold sneezing 
too late into their sleeves and brandishing 
their arms in air. Fear grips us when they frown 
as they walk past our grim deformities 
dragging with them the secret scent of love 
bought by the ounce from gilded shops above 
the rotunda of the bright cities. 

In the cold months of fog and heavy rains 

our gods die one by one and caskets golden 
are borne on the hard pavements at even 
down roads named after them, across the plains 
where all gods go. Oh, we outlive them all, 
but there are junior gods fast growing tall.

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