Posts Tagged ‘god’




Looking for god under the bed—

finding dust bunnies.

Sacred dust bunnies.

Of course, I think,

but to be honest, friend,

I don’t really see

the divine

in these drifts of abandoned hair

and fuzz and grit,

no matter how much I’d like to.

Now I know how I get in my own way.

For here on, I’ll need to question

my eyes more often.

Lower my standards? Perhaps

feel myself being held

up to the light

to see what shines.



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More Opening to Do




But I took the door

off the hinges,

I said, knowing

I had more opening

to do. Yes,

said God, before

tearing down

the whole house.

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Power to the paradox.
–Jack Mueller

Today you are the cut on the finger
and you also the knife.
You the bandage that wraps the wound.
You the Advil, the ice.

You the sun, and the burn that comes.
You the aloe salve.
You the moon and the absence of moon.
You the children’s laugh.

And you the scent of old dead leaves,
and you the stubborn green.
You the red wine and the empty cup.
The song, the one who sings.

And you the silence between the notes.
You the coat and the chill.
You the uncomfortable anger, the blame,
you the one who sees through.

And you the lines I will never write.
And you the eraser, the lead.
You the peace and you the unrest
the beginning without end.

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Four Amusements

mom, she says,
let’s pretend I’m dressed up
as God


in the canyon
the sound of water dripping—
between each drop, your name


wishing the falls
would name me after


tonight the answer
to every question—

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Eight Unhingings

I begged God,
enter me, God said, yes darling
you bolted the door


all this time searching
for a door, not seeing the door
inside me


knock knock
who’s there? you are.
you are who?


slipping this love letter
under the narrow gap
of the wrong door


god in the bolt,
god in the door, god
in the hand that bolts


on my own welcome mat
roses in hand


knock knock
who’s there? forgive.
forgive who?


unbolting the door
only to notice the walls
were already gone

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Living by Water

If you dig deep enough
anywhere on this land
you will eventually hit water.
It is hard to believe this,
looking at the field with its tall grass
and mullein leaves and globes of salsify.

It is so human to want some proof,
to grab the shovel and dig up the earth
so that dirt covers the daisies, the grass.
Then they’re buried and dead, but at least
we know, our shovels wet, that it was true.

Sometimes I wish I had the scalpel
that could cut into to me to find you,
you the river who moves
through my life, clear and continuous,
immeasurable, surprising, unseen.

But what would it prove that I do
not already know: That we die
without water. That the field
is a good place to kneel, to pray.

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So when I said,
God, sometimes
I am just so tired,
she said, (and it wasn’t
really a she, but it wasn’t
really a he, either),
she said, yeah,
not as if she were going
to change anything
more as if she knew
exactly what I meant.
And then I said,
God, I’m sorry.
I guess you’ve seen
all the bad stuff
I have done.
And she said,
yes, not as if
she thought
I’d been bad, more
as if she believed
I were truly sorry.
And then I said,
though it scared me
to say it, God,
sometimes I don’t
believe in you.
She nodded,
though it were
more like a wave,
like a current,
like a swell
than a nod,
and she said
nothing, as if
she didn’t want
to prove me wrong.

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Today God is perhaps like a rash
that terribly blooms
on your leg. Red blisters
on a raised red patch.
For nearly two weeks,
it is all you can think about.
What to eat for dinner and
it itches. The children need
milk and it itches. The sky!
it’s so pink at dawn and
it itches. It is your best friend’s
birthday and it itches. Israel
conducts an airstrike into Syria
and it itches. This is how
I have wanted God to show up—
hand in hand with everything.
I have wanted to not forget,
to not be distracted by the events
of the world, to find God
in the every fold of the day.
God in the tea cup. God in
the stop sign. God in the empty
dish. God in the brush.
This is not what I had in mind,
this pain, this incessant urge
to shred my own skin, to scratch
what cannot be touched.
But it’s working. All eclipsed.
God in everything.
In the incessant tug of it,
the red, deep pain of it,
the calling to bow to it
now and now and now.

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God says, Sit over there, there
where it’s hot. Now steep.
God says, wait there for me.
I wait. I do not understand
what any of the signs
around me mean.
God calls my number.
I rise. She lays me naked
on a table. I close my eyes.
She scrubs me. And scrubs.
Without mercy, she scrubs.
It is a long time before
I understand that the small
gray rolls beside me are
my own layers coming off.
Not one inch of me
is forgotten. She adds salt
and she scrubs. She adds soap,
and she scrubs. She lathers me
then rinses me. She turns me. She hums.
There is no chit chat. No
q & a. No whys. She covers me
in warm towels and pulls me
against myself. She climbs
on the table and straddles me. She makes
of my body a drum and beats
loud slaps on my head,
in both armpits, on my right
then left thigh. God coves me
in oil, then rubs me till I shine.
I am just another body. She
turns me into silk. She grinds
her elbow between my ribs. She
bathes me in warm milk.
I do not mourn the layers gone.
I do not ask God to explain.
There is more to come off,
she runs her hands through my hair,
but only so much at a time.

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Taking My Hands Off the Wheel

God must have tired
of all that sweet talk
and sending subtle signs,
coming instead the way
he did in a ripped white t-shirt,
banging at the car door.
I did not open it at first,
so he pulled off the handle,
then ripped the metal,
and pulled it off piece
by piece till nothing
remained of the door.
He was thirsty he said.
I gave him what I had,
half a bottle of spring water,
but he growled at me
knowing I was hiding
the tequila in the back seat.
I did not ask him
what he had to teach me.
Nor did I run
out the open door
to hide in the ditch.
I just handed him
the bottle, knowing
things would be really
uncontrollable now, and god,
he looked right at me
and took a big, long drink.

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