Everything a Type of Protest
Brandon Cook
I.
Everything forms a type of protest against the great lying down which is our lot
Our destiny—the big sleep that hangs above us like a city sheet, waiting to fall down
The gritty darkness of night, of fog
As we bleat about like sheep
So, too, the professor asking for a whiskey, neat
While the bartender beats a sad retreat
Is its own ritual of resistance
And the drink a protest
A litany cursing defeat
A ceremony of prolonging and resisting sleep
As he stares into the darkness, unblinking
Rage swelling beneath his feet
Anger pointing him back to courage, swift and fleet
I like to think he left that bar and went to get the girl
And began the good hard work of letting go and letting the wind inside his heart, like God
A spark to start an arc of fire
I like to think his protest became a life of love
II.
It is possible, after all:
I have felt the invitation of the Holy Spirit on my fingers and how, burning in the discomfort of welcome, the day rises to teach you even while it greets you
I felt that same presence one green summer, all summer long,
Mistaken, called by some other name—youth or lust
When it was God’s own presence
A burning bush, except the whole world was on fire
That summer, we rose on adolescence and thrived on indolence
Broken only by the strain of good, hard, and sweaty work
And we learned
That even work is protest
And that every good deed laid down in love
Is to be resurrected in a great throng
As crowds sing songs on the streets of some skyward Jerusalem, here on earth
With signs and banners flung
And rainstorms come to wash away the wounds and endless words
Leaving us only knowing, which needs no speech
As the water drains down in gutters, looking for the sea
The streams can find no ocean (for the sea has been made no more)
And no more signs or banners of protest are needed
As there’s no more death
For death has been protested by God Himself
As God carries a banner,
As God is trampled under endless feet who do not see Him
As God rises skyward like the no-more sea
As God sits, crowned at last,
Above all things