Thick-fingered hand clasped around the nape of my neck—
  —the hand of god. Of fate. Of whatever held that previous speck

of universe in his freckle-speckled hand.


Clasping a prayer between my narrow fingers and searching—
—may I please have an answer? A father in the sky? Somebody

to yell me back down from this high branch?


The oak tree me and Sophia climbed when we were nine—
—the godlessness of it all. We were Pagans then. God was

my mother’s perfume lingering on her scarf.


God was my best friend at thirteen in the aisle of Salvos—
—a piercing in a carpark. Half a gram rolled up in ripped-up

and still-flimsy bible page.


Cherry chapstick ******* smoke from Corinthians 16:14—
—the sun falling down behind us. Wax melting. The crinkle of

foil between your freckle-speckled hand.