Dear Elon

From the Department of Spiritual Inefficiency

Elon as a teen.

Of course you know the ways of a bully. 
Those Pretoria boys flung you down 
a flight of stairs for being short and strange.
When you returned from the hospital, 
famished for love, your father called you 
a loser for getting your face smashed in. 

But you are fearfully and wonderfully 
made, beloved, as are the parasites 
you rail against, the refugees and migrants,
the daughter you excised from your life.
Verily, I tell you, more beautiful 
than the stars you want to conquer 
is a Cameroonian mother wiping her eyes 
as her kid gets a two-buck malaria shot.

If the kingdom of heaven is the eye 
of a needle, Elon, you are a quintuple-
humped camel trampling it under the dirt. 
But I live for possibility. If you asked, 
I would stretch you to fit through 
that gleaming millimeter like a spaghettified traveler 
rocketing too close to a quasar. 
Yes, I would turn you into a noodle of repentance
with hands too floppy to destroy or salute—
just a string of spirit stretching and slipping 
deeper into my disastrous pull, a love
that is anything but efficient.