Another Sinner’s Prayer, etc.
By
Ethan McGuire
ANOTHER SINNER’S PRAYER
God, I don’t believe in who You are.
Help my unbelief? No—I’m untrue.
Heal me. Give me grace. I’m not that far
from Your Heaven now—some foreign star…
Lord, I can’t. I love a man—not You.
God, I don’t believe in who You are.
Women, too, still fill my mind and car,
thrilling me with each new rendezvous.
Heal me. Give me grace. I’m not that far.
Evil thoughts cut through my mind. The scar
torn here on my brain, it is not new.
God, I can’t believe in who You are.
Anne (for years, she’s been my registrar)
lets me know our youngest has no clue.
Heal us. Give us grace. We’re not that far.
“Pardon me?” Asked in my wife’s boudoir.
Not mine. Why? I can’t tell even You.
God, I don’t believe in who You are—
heal me. Give me grace. I’m not that far.
DERMATILLOMANIA
Jagged, red spots
on the tops of my hands,
spread across my fingers,
where I dug and raked
nails and teeth, further, deeper—
self-mutilation out of frustration,
self-hatred born of anxiety—
having begun with the pursuit
of a solitary hair, like trying
and uprooting an embarrassing weed,
torn from passive-aggressive earth.
Red, glossy blotches, jagged reminders
to practice some restraint.
Ethan McGuire is a writer and computer scientist whose essays, poems, short stories, and translations have appeared in Blue Unicorn, The Dispatch, Emerald Coast Review, New Verse News, VoegelinView, and other publications. He is an editor at Tar River Poetry, Literary Matters, and New Verse Review and the author of Songs for Christmas (Harmonia Mundi) and Apocalypse Dance (Wipf & Stock). Ethan lives with his wife and children in Fort Wayne, Indiana.
By
Ethan McGuire
ANOTHER SINNER’S PRAYER
God, I don’t believe in who You are.
Help my unbelief? No—I’m untrue.
Heal me. Give me grace. I’m not that far
from Your Heaven now—some foreign star…
Lord, I can’t. I love a man—not You.
God, I don’t believe in who You are.
Women, too, still fill my mind and car,
thrilling me with each new rendezvous.
Heal me. Give me grace. I’m not that far.
Evil thoughts cut through my mind. The scar
torn here on my brain, it is not new.
God, I can’t believe in who You are.
Anne (for years, she’s been my registrar)
lets me know our youngest has no clue.
Heal us. Give us grace. We’re not that far.
“Pardon me?” Asked in my wife’s boudoir.
Not mine. Why? I can’t tell even You.
God, I don’t believe in who You are—
heal me. Give me grace. I’m not that far.
DERMATILLOMANIA
Jagged, red spots
on the tops of my hands,
spread across my fingers,
where I dug and raked
nails and teeth, further, deeper—
self-mutilation out of frustration,
self-hatred born of anxiety—
having begun with the pursuit
of a solitary hair, like trying
and uprooting an embarrassing weed,
torn from passive-aggressive earth.
Red, glossy blotches, jagged reminders
to practice some restraint.
Ethan McGuire is a writer and computer scientist whose essays, poems, short stories, and translations have appeared in Blue Unicorn, The Dispatch, Emerald Coast Review, New Verse News, VoegelinView, and other publications. He is an editor at Tar River Poetry, Literary Matters, and New Verse Review and the author of Songs for Christmas (Harmonia Mundi) and Apocalypse Dance (Wipf & Stock). Ethan lives with his wife and children in Fort Wayne, Indiana.
