The dry air crackled with Baal-smoke.
Next door’s party was infiltrating. I could
read the signs in smoke so I spoke them: No
parch-quitting rain for a while. Things got hot, I hid
in a ditch. Ravens provided stomach-comfort.
Sooner or later, my words would fry my own drinking water.
They did. I scooted deep into Baal-smoke
territory. There I did what I could
for my widow host. No flour, no oil, no
son’s life would run out on this watch. Nothing here hid
from Yahweh-care. Turns out no
life, no quiet widow-life even, can be hid
from the scourge of life-giving comfort.
We waited for water.
The widow’s bread-baking aromas dissolved into the Baal-smoke.
Royal wingman Obadiah: not one averse to providing sly prophet-comfort.
But his king was really angry re: no water.
Also, angry that Yahweh could blow me like a smoke
of Invisibility. Was decided I could
bring everything to a logical confrontation. No
trouble for the Troubler-who-no-longer-hid.
A contest to provide a deluge of comfort,
precipitate fire and burst open realms of heavenly water.
Turns out that ecstasy wearies those dancing for smoke.
Turns out that if anyone could fire up the mountain, Yahweh could.
But under the broom bush it seems all my high-chariot energy could
run out. It seems I’m no better than any, and there’s no-
one who is. That’s why I’m lying here, and that’s why I hid.
But. Turns out no capital-T troubler can escape angelic comfort
and widowy baking skills. This time with water.
Turns out there was no end-time comfort in wind, earthquakes, no
revelation in fire. I hid my face, I could
feel the silence. The whisper like smoke on water.