Answer to Job
these hands. they are yours. i’m scared
of holding them. you will drag me
into your body and make me die with you.
i am standing far enough to avoid hearing any of this. you are dying.
this is how it ends. this is what will happen to me.
it’s always about me. this reel pirouetting inside—i don’t feel
real. this world is not solid enough.
my skin doesn’t brush against anything. it’s just going right through.
i was a child in my bed. in a fever. obsessing about heaven.
i have to find a way to squeeze myself into water, to pour myself
into heaven’s clenched jaw.
how can i ever be as shiny as these walls that gleam like stainless steel dishes?
i don’t want to go on forever. even if i pretend to be good.
god can’t be that whole if he thinks he is more deserving than me.
people think god is in heaven. heaven is too fine-tuned—too draughty for gestation.
i want god to be me. i want to incubate god within the wool my womb is woven with.