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by Christopher Bissett

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.