How Is God?
Stella Brice

On my pink geranium
I find a sealed
mud vase—small as a tip.
A cocoon for an insect that might sting me.

So I crush it & a neon worm gropes
my life line blindly amidst the shatters
of its home. I have wrecked
its incubation & now it shrivels
in the raw air.
I throw this mess onto the ground.

I am big.
I have done wrong
like God does wrong

With his armies of thick; & dirty blood tubes; &
steel fences raping in waves.
(The villager with her hands thrown
in front of her face.)

God is bad.

He gorges Himself
on worship. On fear.
It’s a goblet feast
for His table.

I say
God is bad.

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