This could be my last magic trick – choosing a wardrobe for God
from the shit human minds alone could create, Do we really need
a professional shopper to prove God could rock a pair of skinny jeans?
I read the list again: Charles Townsend, Sharon, God. I want
to shuffle God to the front, serve him first, but that’s against
company procedure and why bother things? God will need to be pulled
taut, his clothing fitted yet versatile. You never know someone truly
until you’ve seen them in a skin-tight t-shirt. God wouldn’t mind
the abandoned hangers on the fitting-room floor,
as long as there’s enough space for folk to kneel.
But what if the shoppers take sleazy God pics under the curtains?
Would I be seen as complicit? How long till he starts liking me again?
I always feel faint in a room with a deity.
What if God has an ill-proportioned frame
lost in both horizontal and vertical patterns?
The Earth shudders doubt beneath my feet,
This is the underlife – fear crawling through the cobwebs of faith.
I clip on my name-tag, tuck irrational joy
into the parts of my body where darkness settles, and wait.