O.M.G.

God is the fizz/pop of a failing light bulb.
God is Wagner’s Götterdämmerung.
God is a red warning sign on a sharp bend.
God is a shoe salesman in a designer shop.
God is one segment of a chocolate orange
or an ice cube in a shaken not stirred.
God is an invisible splinter in the sole of your foot.

God is a pyramid in your heart.
God is a pair of curtains that don’t meet in the middle.
God is a lost pair of scissors in the back of a drawer
or a set of cookie cutters in fancy shapes.
God is the teaspoon of honey in your hot toddy.
God is the knot in your umbilical cord,
the stinking pus of a wound that never heals.

God is a dandelion clock on a windy day
and the scent of wet earth in a forest.
God is butter melting on toasted crumpet
or an onion on the chopping board.
God is a sandwich cut into tiny squares.
God is the steady drip of a leaking tap.
God is a white feather on your path.

God is a daub of yellow paint on blank canvas.
God is a game of truth or dare.
God is a broken windscreen in the fast lane
or a hit and run on a dark street.
God is the dogs of Chernobyl looking for a home
and snow drifting in the Carpathian Mountains.
God is a gardener who prunes hard every winter.

 

 

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She never learned the 60% rule,
hungry swarms disappearing.

Small insects under her skin,
no place for strangers.

Cracking pistachios late October,
a bumble of dogs bark at the fish truck.

She was arrested for public indecency,
a memory, bare arsed in a sacred place.

Time was up. At the border
she never heard church bells.

The day stripped naked, intersecting
her space with signs.

The sun more pink now. She swatted
it flat and bloody with her hand.

 

 

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Image created by the author