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

by KATIE CONDON

 

& 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?

 

Nah.

 

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.