If God is squat

in a corner,
his crown gone clunk, old
head curved anushohl
voice spluttering that
that’s a perfect

then maybe I have stolen his arms,
will not wrap these stolen legs
around him, but watch myself instead, another eye
triumphant! my nightgown shed, her whorl deeper
and deeper into bledclothes, where I laugh and stomp God’s feet
across-beyond instead, wrong-cut circles I round through and beyond


In that, another eye alone, bears
her, her room, bare

except the mess of bed
and you whom she thought dead
in a corner.

She stops laughing
to watch.