I never heard those voices.

I know it wasn't exactly scrupulous,
letting everyone believe I'd talked
to God, but a girl's got to get
some attention however she can.

The truth is, I was sick to death
of being ignored, the last-born daughter
of a dirt-poor, dirt-dumb man.
And pretending divine intervention
could get me out of the slop.

It was nice to be sainted, revered,
followed into battle without hesitation.
Imagine! A woman trusted with the life
of a man, of many men.

But I'm done now.
The view from Heaven is breathtaking,
every little detail clear as a mirror,
sharp as winter air. I can see women
and men, their daily lives more real
than these boring cherubim with their
incessant singing and mistuned harps.

I see a tiny town near the place
I used to live. There's a woman there,
making dinner for an indolent man.
She scrubs vegetables, cleans the guts
from a slimy fish.

She hears voices. Not the kind
I pretended to hear; not some resonant
order for a holy war, not the deep
clang of a divine summons. She hears
herself, bubbling up like lava
from a fissure in the uneasy earth.
She hears a life almost within her
grasp, but it will take
a revolution to deliver it.

Shouldn't you be paying some attention to her?