moses in the storm drain

i wish i knew less about the bible. 
it came to me in patches. the church talking
book like a drill into a vat of heaven's grease. 
i find angels in the sugar. mary 
on the back porch in her nice
blue clothes. once, i stepped on a snake.
my favorite prophet has always been 
the the rooster. his call when the day breaks open.
in the middle of the last summer
rain came heavy. i heard a baby crying & so 
i went outside with a crumpled umbrella.
there was infant moses reaching.
i am lucky that i am not a pharoh. 
with a stick i dislodged him so he could
keep drifting in the brief stream towards
whatever royalty he was seeking.
i don't talk to god if he is there. he is
certainly not there. a myth is knit by 
hunger not be truth. please let there be
an explanation for why the night hurts. 
for where the dead go to gossip over
& over about everything that happened.
my favorite character in the bible is mary magdalen.
i relate to her. a disciple in purpose but not
in name. i want to know what she does
with her hands now that the story is over.
i think she keeps a river of blood. i think she
knows every ghost's names. 
if i could forget the bible i think i would
replace it with a big gaping whole
just like the one my father once
punch in the wall of the house
on main street. was that him or me?
maybe it was god. when all else fails
i guess it can be god. i did consider
keeping moses. i could have raised him to be gay.
take him out of school. learn in the yard
with the deer. use the basket he came in
for picking chestnuts in october.