Jonah

I'm with you, brother, asleep
while your companions fight against the storm.
You have nothing better to do--
or rather--you have something, but
determine on undoing, instead.

I'm with you, brother. I imagine you hollering, resigned,
maybe almost welcoming death:
"Throw me in."
You saw, you had too see,
how your small stubborn cannonball of rebellion
splashed tribulation over everyone nearby.

I watch with you, watch the water lock
(fathom after fathom) above our heads,
slowly stopping the light:
"'The deep surrounded me;
weeds were wrapped about my head
at the roots of the mountains.
I went down to the land whose bars
closed upon me forever . . . .'"

You are audacious, my brother--
turning your face to the last of the light--
and crying for rescue from this--
the end of your running--
the down deep bottom
of not going to Nineveh.
Even from the fish's belly,
your lance pierces me, prophet:
"'Those who pay regard to vain idols
forsake their hope of steadfast love.'"
In all my running, all I have wanted
was love I couldn't escape.

How small must have been your world,
and how large your peevishness,
to begrudge God His mercy
and others His forgiveness.
You are like me, brother, small
in a saga much bigger than yourself,
servant of a God Who bends
to send you storms and great fishes,
a vine and a worm,
sunburn and a question.