Each time I meet with God
he is still singing and jealous
of the way I’ve learned to speak
with my hands. By autumn
I am drunk in the bathtub again.
The water is warm. I think of December
and the Christmas trees sold
along the Singel, the flower market
brimming with black coats.
Like pine, I am desperate to be lit.
God tells me I am embarrassing
at love. I tell him he is lucky,
all mighty, but all voice.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 4.
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