October, Bloody-Lipped, Having Received the Essential Calling as Prophet at the Skate Rink

The call comes when the lights flicker off
& the disco balls switch on. You feel it
in your ankles first, a shaking across your unsteady bones.
God’s voice– or maybe an angel’s– says
Tell the people but the people are busy,
spinning & twisting to a beat overplaying
the Lord's seraphim & all their trumpets.
Couldn't you wait? All in God's time, but God
apparently didn't account for how bad you want (& want & want).
All in God's time, of course, but can’t God
wait until the song is over? Doesn’t he know
the fire in your skidding heels, the calloused
balls of your feet? The way your arms swing
when you give the all of yourself to the momentum
of the floor, catching up to, swerving past a flash of sharpened grace– a smile
you’re just dying to cut yourself on? Doesn’t
He know?