God should not be forbidding
God should gleam with all the dreamlike
welcome one can muster
God should not be grim and grey
with skewers piercing through the day
and carving up the night
God should be all light and lustre
warmth and softness and give
God should not be made to live with roses
fenced with knifelike spikes
God should be a wild, growing garden
calling you to smell and touch and lie.
Who set God in this cement?
Who killed him in his sleep?
I’ll reach through the tomb walls
and pick a rose to keep
in memory of
him.
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