God is a Half Formed Thing

God is a wild dog in the streets.

God has a matted fur coat.

God is pacing outside my window, howling, howling.

God wants me to come outside and play.

God fell off the loveseat and crawled, whimpering, into my lap.

God looked into my eyes and ate out my heart.

God performs every trick she knows at the foot of the table.

God has a porch with a swing.

God ripped a wing from a corpse at the park and left it at my feet.

God might be rabid.

God asked me to cut her hair (she can’t see the back).

God likes to bite, but only when she’s bored.

God is a snake with her tail clamped in her mouth.

God told me she loves me.

God took the upstairs bedroom.

God made me croissants every Sunday.

God doesn’t quite know what to do with me.

God wears lots of sunscreen.

God keeps her hair short.

God keeps the floors clean.

God keeps me wrapped around her finger.

God told me my future.

God thinks everyone is leaving her behind.

God eats from the palm of my hand.

God keeps me on my knees.

God is a bad girl.

God is my best friend.

God remembers what once was.

God knows what could be.

God places her paws on my chest and kisses me, tail thumping, thumping, thumping.