God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.
Someone brought me oranges in my despair but I could not eat a one for God was in that orange. I could not touch what did not belong to me. The priest came, he said God was even in Hitler. I did not believe him for if God were in Hitler then God would be in me. I did not hear the bird sounds. They had left. I did not see the speechless clouds, I saw only the little white dish of my faith breaking in the crater.
I kept saying:
I’ve got to have something to hold on to. People gave me Bibles, crucifixes, a yellow daisy, but I could not touch them, I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
So I ate myself, bite by bite, and the tears washed me, wave after cowardly wave, swallowing canker after canker and Jesus stood over me looking down and He laughed to find me gone, and put His mouth to mine and gave me His air.
My kindred, my brother, I said and gave the yellow daisy to the crazy woman in the next bed.