This is a poem Alison alluded to in her introduction.
It's called "The Orders."
One spring night, at the end of my street God was lying in wait.
A friend and I were sitting in his new sedan
like a couple of cops on surveillance,
shooting the breeze to pass the time, chatting up the daydreams,
the raw deals, all the woulda-coulda-shoulda's,
the latest can you believe that?
As well as the little strokes of luck, the so-called triumphs,
small and unforeseen, that kept us from cashing it all in.
And God, who's famous for working in mysterious ways
and capable of anything, took the form of a woman and a man,
each dressed in dark clothes and desperate enough
to walk up to the car and open the doors.
And God put a gun to the head of my friend--
right against the brainstem, where the orders go out
not only to the heart and the lungs
but to consciousness itself--
a cold muzzle aimed at where the oldest urges
still have their day: the one that
says eat whatever is at hand, the one that wants only to fuck,
the one that will kill if it has to.
And God said not to look at him or he'd
blow us straight to kingdom come,
and God told us to keep our hands to ourselves, as if she
weren't that kind of girl.
Suddenly time was nothing, our lives were cheap,
the light in the car cold, light from a hospital,
light from a morgue.
And the moments that followed-- if that's what they were--
arrived with a nearly unbearable weight,
until we had acquired a center of gravity
as great as the planet itself.
My friend could hardly speak--
he was too busy trying not to die--
which made me chatter all the more, as if words,
even the most ordinary ones, had the power
to return us to our lives.
And behind my ad-libbed incantation, my counterspell
to fear, the orders still went out:
keep beating, keep breathing, you are not permitted
to disappear, even as one half of God
kept bitching to the other half that we didn't have hardly
no money at all, and the other half barked,
I'm telling you to shut your mouth.
And went on rummaging through the back seat.
And no one at all looking out their window,
no one coming home or going out.
Until two tell neighbors came walking toward us
like unsuspecting saviors.
And God grabbed the little we'd been
given, the little we still had, and hustled on
to the next dark street.