Bird, Age 16, Contemplates God
If God loves me, he must feel conflicted.
If God has a slogan for his white-hot
supernatural existence, it must be:
I'm less happy than I let on.
If God has a face, it must hint
at a syphilitic midlife Rimbaud
with the 4 o 'clock shadow
of the south Jersey speedline
humping past Camden, mid-July.
If God has a foot, I'd stomp it,
am stomping it. If God has a thumb,
I'd suggest he use it
to move down the proverbial road.
If God has a message for my ears,
it will come damningly via digital jukebox:
Must have been these heaven-driven
winds that drowned you
If a teenage Jesus once hit his knees
penitentiary-style for some senior deity,
it can't have been his wrung-out
bearded dad, but rather
someone sharp and resourceful
at getting wicked fucked up.
A god even God could get behind.
I bet he was blackclad, bassist for a band,
spiked his hair with Elmer's and bedded
his angels for anything other than romance—
but cunningly, so they later recalled
not just the bruised-boot shimmy,
sneakers scuffing concrete til
their toes poked bloody through,
but a rapture in the star-crossed legs
that held them.
Grace Schauer holds an MFA from Emerson College and a BA in English from the University of Mary Washington. A Florida native, she grew up outside Washington, DC. Her poems have appeared in Ploughshares and Breakwater Review, and she has written for Redivider. She lives and works in the Boston area.