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About Being Good and God

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.

 

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Poet and Tarot Reader, specializing in Water Cartography
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