God is not in the guest room. Nope, not in a fountain
pen; nor in the word-city sprawling across this page.
God, that sage, is not coming to my birthday party—
didn’t even RSVP. So let’s all agree that God forgets
to check e-mails; sometimes forgets to write.
Most nights I think God may not be anywhere. But
someone had to tell my ears to hear the music
after you walked in the restaurant. That day,
we smoked some weed before dinner. It was raining,
so I got us a table while you parked. All eyes
in the room shot right through me. My lit-up body
seemed to stop working, had to think about breathing.
Then you came in & the bass beats bumped
me back to stasis. You noticed we had the best
table in the place because the rain drizzled
down the glass by my face. I hadn’t seen
a drop, hadn’t realized I was sitting. Before you,
I had been missing the music & the rain.
Maybe you’re God. If not, I don’t claim to know
the real one on a first-name basis or anything,
but someone’s been cutting me some slack.
Look, I lack compliancy & at tops, I’m a C+
when it comes to taking orders from old books.
I don’t always listen, but hear this very clearly:
God wants me to want you. So I’ll do
what I have to do ’cause someone out there
got you to notice me, got you and me to muck
up the sheets of my bed, right? Don't answer.
Someone out there is helping us. Someone out there
has a plan. How else could it all feel so Goddamn good?
Bay Area-native poet and teacher living in San Diego. When not writing or reading
poems, she likes to look very closely at her modest garden, walk to her neighborhood
bar where she is a local, practice cartwheels, think of new potluck themes, and
play softball. She is not afraid of spiders.
Follow her silliness at: