If God Won’t Listen, You Might

Standing on the shore, I am desperate to drown,

aching to wade in, split my spine against the silt.

Swallow me whole, please?

I want to pinpoint every undercurrent.

Embrace the vestibular response

of shifting gravity.

I keep praying for rain, arguing with God,

anything to draw you closer.

I try to remember how to be gentle.

I skip rocks across the surface,

testing the tension.

I like the way laughter ripples through you.

I hold a grudge against God,

for the way light worships you,

earth-shattering refraction, causing tender miosis.

I bring you offerings of sticks and sun,

I don’t think they are enough.

You deserve more than marrow.

I sit with you, searching the banks

for anything I can throw at you.

You never flinch.

I wonder if God can hear me screaming?

If She understands my impatience?

If it will rain next week?