Sermon for the Drowned Cunt of God

don't talk to her about faith.

talk to her about the fangs in the water.

about the slick soft things

that stole her sons

right out of her arms

like your god’s fingers still wet from the last girl he judged.

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she never learned the names of your prophets.

never saw your temples.

they built no altars in her mud.

but the sky cracked open anyway,

like a holy cunt birthing nothing but rain.

-

her boys screamed.

she swallowed it.

no elegy. no dove. no ark.

only rotwood and the sound of lungs forgetting air.

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you think you know wrath?

you think flood means cleanse?

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the trees are gone.

the river is rising.

the world is all wet grave now.

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and she—

she's the last dry thought

in the mind of a dying world.

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so go ahead, preacher.

open your book.

read her your favorite bit.

she’ll gouge the words from your throat

and feed them to the storm.

.