I remember God was a queer boy with a cowlick the color of gold.
I saw him being arrested on the corner of Haight-Ashbury.
I remember that the sky boiled with clouds, about to dump a hail
storm of rage and windy rain upon our heads. I waited.
It never did.
No, God was an undocumented woman from Juarez.
It took five ICE agents to hold her down. Her hair was a nest
of writhing snakes shedding skin.
God was hit in the face by at least six billy
clubs & shot twice in the back
for good measure.
He was a black boy from Charlotte
& his crime was breathing.
God was a transwoman
with one shoe.
A small Asian boy with an accent.
No one knew from where.
God was an AMBER Alert
but only for little white girls.
God worked at McDonald’s but slept beneath a bridge.
God is in the drunk tank.
God died & was then resurrected
atop the foothills only to be bludgeoned
again & again & again with rubber bullets.
He had a dog named Chuck and his favorite tree was the Aspen.
The policemen exclaimed at God’s resiliency
to take a beating & then bore down
& beat him again.
God lived on in the 5 o’clock news.
Once God was an old piece of Christmas tinsel,
a dilapidated foil pinwheel swimming in a gutter.
A trash man.
A teenager who plays
a distorted guitar in a punk band.
God was a dementia-riddled grandmother
who walked barefoot into the night.
She wore a pale pink cotton house
dress & the moon illuminated her
I sat in God’s lap once & she told me
We forget only the things we must.
God stroked my hair with
paper-thin skinned hands
& I was comforted.