Widow

God,

You carry this device in my chest called   love

&  I – a child of  infertility – choose you to  sterilize 

the left testicle  of  intimacy    While sitting on the right

(hand, of course)  I grope  the goose   which is your ghost

Not holy   not resurrection   not an assault on the Nature

of Divinity     :::: God,    you once castrated   my belief in you

It    was February   or March   in a sublet in   Brooklyn

&  I (still) respond  by emasculating  your vision of   toilet paper 

Hand sanitizer         hands clapping into a Berlin night 

Let me   be clear :    the door is not  you,  the skylight isn’t me gazing 

down  at you,  the window  isn’t your widow   

I never view you as anybody’s hard husband                Never wed    for now

Let me be empty  – the Indo-European root signifier for widow

Let me bereft 

Let me leave your bed side while  I neuter  you out of my galaxy 

 

 

 

Click here to read VI KHI NAO on the writing of this poem:

VI KHI NAO: I wrote this poem during the time when everyone was buying toilet paper and they were all sold out on Amazon and in grocery stores in preparation for the pandemic. And, it reflects my relationship to God and how social media has changed my perception of God in the last year or so.

Image:Avenue des Pierres Rouges 20 Yabby CC 2.0

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