i like it when
moses slapped the face
of that herob rock, only to drown
in disbelief that god
would deny him
for such a trite act— after he stoned
the far east's cyclops'
perfume tyrant, after he tamed
a wild sasquatch to recite
verses of rumi en pointe, after he
fed the gorgon's baby to a priestess
humming whirlpools
by the edge of babylon hotel, after he
poisoned the fifth movement
of beethoven's walk-in closet
to escape invisible
tentacles from the sea mastodon guarding
rukh eggs. after
all he had accomplished. all moses
had to do was talk
to the rock. and in his anger
he bound his wife to a chair,
scooped her eyes for croquet balls,
and left her to wonder his
future on the court. in the echo of desert
marauders heard her gift to the sands: "this is me singing; this is me singing with my
eyes closed."

About the Poet

Robby Nadler is a baker on bread sabbatical in Athens, Georgia. Once he received a default rejection from The New Yorker within hours of submission, and, like the girl who got punched in the face by Regina George in Mean Girls said, it was awesome.