What I Pour, I Drink
︎︎︎ Jason
︎ Dec 16, 2025
If this, my wretched form, is here to stay,
A wilting green in waterlogging clay,
That flowers still by plenty, bears no fruit:
A season, always blooming, never buds.
But I am not a plant. I cannot root.
I walk and talk and seek the scent of fumes.
My lips I press to smoke before I pray,
And sip at Coke without my daily bread.
Strange rite to pour a cola on a shrub
And watch the bubbles rise and fizzle, hiss;
They slowly sink against the mud—and pop:
Shrubs cannot tell a succor from a slight.
But I was made by God to tend the Garden;
And God was made to me, that I might drink.
A wilting green in waterlogging clay,
That flowers still by plenty, bears no fruit:
A season, always blooming, never buds.
But I am not a plant. I cannot root.
I walk and talk and seek the scent of fumes.
My lips I press to smoke before I pray,
And sip at Coke without my daily bread.
Strange rite to pour a cola on a shrub
And watch the bubbles rise and fizzle, hiss;
They slowly sink against the mud—and pop:
Shrubs cannot tell a succor from a slight.
But I was made by God to tend the Garden;
And God was made to me, that I might drink.
Jason writes about God, women, and the problem of words. He argues with the people he loves and calls it prayer. He hopes this will lead us to mercy.
Also by Jason: Eclipse of the Public Body (Given Freely)