Poetry — By on February 24, 2013 at 5:00 am

Some middle-aged woman painted the room
placed journals and pens, incense fumes,
white candles, cassette tapes, every kind of crucifix,
an old recliner that no longer fit
her aesthetic.

If only God were a door or a summer beach
or a wise animal, a cottage we could enter, wiping our feet,
smell of pomegranates, chamomile floating on the ice
and God—eerily quiet like a bourgeois fantasy—
What’s important is filling the time slots
a journal entry—God enter me now.

Paint the inside of my womb dark purple
write your most thrilling will on my fibula,
across my bones—
erase and batter all of my words,
grind them into paste and infect my mind
with a single truth—
one thing I should do,
one small notice of grace.

Send me away with fire
and level the ground where my steps corrupted your presence.
Tell me there is no longer a need to stay in this place,
that I am fully created without mistake,
ready for forgiveness,
that you heard me once and for all,
that I must never come back here again.

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