It still has to catch up to me sometimes, the rage at how my internal imperative to be good gets thick and syrup and it’s the coating, the grease-the-gears movement yes tip your gloves into your lap and restraint. Restrain your tongue your Mary Poppins your poppet preacher’s wagging.
Write about being good, about the stink-eye I shove down into my socks, the one I coolly pocket when the tide is rising in your tone, when there’s an impulse to scream and I quell it with quills and ink. Where is the end of elliptical acquiescence? Even now, after all this time, after all this.
When I go looking for God, this is when I feel the vibration in the soles of my feet, this buzzing connection to my body: it’s in my body god is in my body. god is good orderly direction god is Self is God is self. All one, deep in the crevices I always move toward the dark, makes the bright brighter and I’m a fighter. My lips are still burning from the flames I birthed in my living room on Monday night. I find myself cooling in moist chocolate soil, worms for hairbows, respite for this cracked clay. The sun bleaches me lemon, tart and tangy, when I go looking for God. It’s in the woman brazen, hips squared, fist raised.
I find God in the Feminist.