On the seventh day God says: What you’ve got is virgin charm & a knife in your pocket.



& I’m like, Thanks?


The heart finds its anchor in the sky.


The woman is told she is a tabernacle.


On the forty-third day, I confuse my hangover for grief.


God says, Your longing will be for me, & I will dominate you.

& I’m like, Nope!


The morning wears a cotton dress.


Is this all I will amount to:


The hot breath of months in my pocket?

Every telephone pole I mistook for a tree?

The melancholy suspicion of library security?




The bartender hums the tune

of a hummingbird rising from its flower.


I say: I inherited Sappho’s pussy

& I believe me.


God says, Thou shalt not kill.

& I’m like, But what about with my eyes.


I never asked for the capacity to love

ugly things, but here I am.


Carnation, daisy, lavender lately the lavender of late.


I boil my stock exclusively with wishbones.


I say, I like my men smooth & far away, reticent

as a bookshelf.

& God butts in: I can do that for you.


His eyes search me like a pendulum.


I’ve scraped a dead man’s ashes out

from under my fingernails like lice eggs.


A woman raised in contest with other women is a child of God.


God says, This is getting serious.

& I’m like, You bet.


I remember my ignorance

& miss it.


The skies open silently with a woman’s legs.


Morning glory, morning glory, morning hallelujah.