1. I slip off the bed.
Slippered feet walk
toward the door, closed.
2. I look down, telling
God: she is just a person.
Shame rushes down spine.
3. Leaning against the wall,
I pull, instead of pushing the gate
open. I scare her to death.
4. I listen to her tell me,
school is awesome.
Her mouth drops wonder
when I stutter how I have
no desire to go.
5. I can’t sleep before midnight.
My mind asking why God says:
Look, the human beings have become
like us: knowing good & evil. What if
they reach out, take fruit from the tree of life,
and eat it? Then they will live forever!
6. I text a friend, explaining
how I hear anger, maybe God
never wanted us forever. I don’t
tell her this, but how I compare
my earthly father to God. Asking
questions makes me terrified
I am bothering someone.
Somehow, I picture God sitting
beside me, as I remember
my father asking, what do you mean
you don’t get it? His frustration
made me feel wrong. The eraser
burning remark against that white paper.
He blew the shavings away backhanded,
while I made resolution to understand
the first time around.
7. I let the phone light go out,
weeping with the question she asks:
what is keeping you from enjoying life
right where you are? I feel small,
chillike, trying to keep tears inside.
My chest heaves, why don’t You love
me? This is getting broken up all over
again, again, again. Tidal wave crushing
shore, until I fall back back
under sleep’a call.