Disgust
by Carl Dennis

It isn't dependable as a guide when it flows
From a grudge against the body, but consider
How helpful it proved in prompting the god
Who revealed himself to the prophet Amos
To gag when he sniffed the savor rising
From temple altars. The smoke of sacrifice
Stank in his nostrils when the fires were lit
By those grown fat on the gleanings of orphans,
On bribes and kickbacks, on the plunder of war.

It couldn't have taken long for a god like that,
Made sick by sanctimonious prayer,
To lose his appetite completely
And dwindle to skin and bones.
No option then but abandoning heaven,
Leaving it to a deity with a stronger stomach.

Down here, he'd have been likely to choose
A rural retreat for his retirement,
Where people worshipped only the gods of harvest:
Potato god, corn god, rain god, sun god.
He couldn't object to simple prayers for continuance,
To a faith in what he considered his best work,
The first five days of creation.

Maybe in time he chose to live on the land
Himself and serve the seasons, to be a farmer
Not too proud to sell his produce on weekends
From a stand at the end of his driveway.
Here come the city-dwellers who'd rather buy
From local growers. Good for them
If they're not put off by the smell of the barnyard
Or by the mud the farmer's left on the roots,
Enough for a grub to hide in, or an earthworm.

While they drive home to a homely meal,
He piles his boxes back on his truck,
Exhorting himself not to feel disgust when comparing
The garden he first conceived for the planet
With the gardens he's willing to sponsor now.