My God is a Woman
Tell me why the world cracks open my soul as if I had more than one, and tosses it like a peanut shell unto the floor, tell me why I can’t be angry at the horizon for being an imaginary line that recedes as I get closer to it, just because it’s beautiful, just because I’m a woman. Sometimes, no, every day I pray that God is a woman, the sun and moon her breasts, the clothed trees her pubic hair, maybe then men would quit telling women to shave; if God was a woman I’d be free. Like the stars bow before God, men would bow before me instead of slaughtering me. People with blood, bone, and beating chests tell me women are not oppressed, but my voice trips over my soul of littered peanut shells spat out by the tongues of men, I want to tell them about the bodies in bushes, the holes we have between our legs that we didn’t ask to be filled, I want to tell them, about the bodies, but they are everywhere; they are in my throat, in my fingertips, there