God didn’t know His own strength.
God was impulsive, exhausted, on drugs.
God accidentally placed my soul inside
the sensitive area between my spine and upper back.
It didn’t belong there but lingered,
taking on the scent of my skin.
God and I had been having that routine argument
where you want the other to just submit.
God said, Just admit it.
I told God that admit was such a loaded word.
God lisped, stuttered. His words came out tangled,
carried in a little boat of violet fluid. God traveled
towards a truth but never got all the way there.
God distanced Himself from me. I felt disquietingly silenced.
Pretending to be indifferent, today I ate lunch alone.
God made me left-handed, so I could sit on the other side
of Jesus and wipe the speckled grit from His body.
I believe that I’m God’s only friend. I believe
in the spare truths of His face. Poor, tired God.
I touch Him as I would a baby.
His forehead is warm, like fever, prayer, or an indignity.
