God said,
are you ready to process the hurt.
to stop keeping your pain there.
I said,
where is it, God?
Where do I keep it?
I feel it seep into my marrow.
I think it’s a cola fizz
erupting in my throat forever.
The heart inflating like a rubber glove.
Did you wear my heart in your hands, God,
as protection from twigs and splinters
when you collected
soil and dirt to give Earth earth?

You overthink things, God said.
Then show me the design.
Lay it all on me.
I can’t, God said.
If I do
you’ll discover why we **** up
the people we love.

How do I get there.
How do I dig it up.
Is it even dug?
Is it cocooned, vacuum packed,
locked inside a vault
in a lava pit?
Passworded?
Iris-scanned?
Police line do not cross.
Is it that gruesome.
Does it exist somewhere
between denial and delay?

God smiled.
And said
There.

There? What?

A sly God.
But.
I had a guess.
Could it be?

The locking mechanisms of pain
is pain itself?
But that’s too simple.
I couldn’t believe that was by design.

11am. A disaster waiting to happen.
A pearl of sweat dances down
my fat belly. I scream at my mother.
I scream at my father, who flees.
My mother’s face quiver
like a defeated child’s. Then I remember
a picture of her. She’s cutting
my birthday cake, in her work clothes.
No gloves.