God's Teeth

I once visited god at a cottage house.

He muttered to me in whispers; 

told me that he was not a he,

but a she and she prefers “they”.

Then they broke out in a great grin. 

God was born with crooked teeth.

An unhealthy appetite, you see;

he eats plants but she prefers meat. 

They can’t make up their mind. 

It has become a daily habit, a filthy routine. 

God has a kitchen full of dirty dishes. 

Used to cover up all their worry and doubt. 

The glasses are stained red because

they do not drink water, 

but do celebrate with wine.

“Raise your glass!” They’ll say,

while looking in the mirror,

to commemorate their lonesome. 

God was abused as a child.

Growing up, he developed abandonment issues,

she cannot commit.

They never knew their parents.

A turmoil grew; a commotion came a clatter.

A chest engraved  “G.O.D.” —

The Great Old Diety, has so many toys.

Becoming fearful of dust,

though it still gathers.

The prayers end up drowning in distance,

there are no listening ears here. 

They bruise easily,

we bruise with intensity. 

A type of turquoise fades

to violet when 

She weeps the floods 

He squints heavily,

We are schizophrenic.