ISSUE: Spring/Summer 2023
I went to God but found
I was fog, expected to dissolve
across the shape of something more
substantial; assume the form
of matter, or someone
who mattered—the way weather falls
across any solid thing and breaks
upon it. God stared at me
staring back; more ice
in the cave of feeling, more darkness
in the cave of thought. I went
to God as a lark
lifts thoughtlessly singing
but gravity tugged everything
under the wing. Like spring trees,
my belief goes off in intervals, erupting
green. Where have they gone,
the missives I placed
in the branches?
Where has that girl gone
who scrambled higher, higher
to get, one way or another, closer
to what was promised?
