Howie Good

Monster of God

It’s he who tears

holes in the sky,

confers the power

of life and death

on the disturbed

and the incautious,

murmurs approval

when a stray bullet

kills a 13-month-old

sleeping in a stroller,

squashes used souls

between his fingers, 

chalks the message

on walls and sidewalks

that if you don’t like

the fruit of heaven,

don’t shake the tree.

Coming to a Country Near You

My grandmother’s father

was a milkman, like Tevye

in Fiddler on the Roof.

He had a pair of horses

to pull his milk wagon. 

One horse was white,

my grandmother said,

and the other was red.

Russians took the horses

when they raided the village.

“They killed plenty Jews,”

my grandfather interjected

in his imperfect English.

My grandmother responded

the horses were beautiful.

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