Don’t write Her like that,
some pie in the sky
some philosophy of men
some angel in the cloud
some Holy Ghost that fills the universe
without body, parts, or passions.
Because God is all body,
with ankles that jut,
divots on Her hips,
wrinkles on Her elbows.
Her larynx is designed for thunder
as much as a whispering coo.
Not just a womb, this God has
arms made bare, hands that unscrew
stuck jar lids as easily as Dad does.
Omnipotent is not a gender role.
She could pole vault if she wanted to,
fling Her perfect weight over meadows,
land square on the breastwork of our temples
with feet that have five toes each.
In another spring
when all prophets, boy and girl, lack Wisdom,
we will seek Her out, and see
that She too has a finger of flesh and bone
that points to Her beloved Son,
as She stands above us in the air
in Sacred Groves.
