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.