Ghazal No. 3 by M. Cynthia Cheung

On TV, astronauts land in Kazakhstan. Behind them, god, 

the locusts—a welcoming party—proclaim no fear of God.

Folks came of age, once, under Chernobyl’s stars.

That was when a sabbatical was easier for God.

Back then, crowds came and went. Unless a giantess

or wolf-boy stepped onstage, hardly anyone became God.

Today, my cousin pretends she’s not coughing blood, that she’s losing 

weight on purpose. I ask myself, how can I take it up with God?

A young surgeon hid his diagnosis. People whispered, like flies: Why 

didn’t he tell anyone—see a doctor, get some help, my God—

There’s the writing on the wall: our universe is built like a bomb.

Surely no one still thinks God is listening, let alone God.

Fast forward again. A man steps in front of some tanks.

I cry, wondering whether God will ever be that kind of God.

You see, I, too, hear angels in my head. But will God 

cast them out—another miracle just for the sake of God?

M. Cynthia Cheung is a physician whose writing can be found in The Baltimore Review, RHINO, Salamander, SWWIM, Tupelo Quarterly and others. Currently, she serves as a judge for Baylor College of Medicine’s annual Michael E. DeBakey Medical Student Poetry Awards. Find out more at www.mcynthiacheung.com.

17 October 2022