God Having a Bath
When we are alone, I want to tell you about
God having a bath. The Milky Way just
a thin film in the corner of a sud on his finger.
All the business with Atahualpa and Spiderman
and the Bastille and dental floss and all those songs
happening in the time it takes
God to brush the bubble from his hands.
Whether he even notices Andromeda
careen into the Milky Way,
their stars spattering across each other
like a paint fight, or whether he's too focused
on scrubbing behind his ears. Waiting
for his mother to tell him the water
has gotten too cold,
and I want to find a way
to make all this sound romantic. To say something
about the gravitrons and photons
flitting between us like secrets. About how
the magnesium and iron in our bodies was forged
in the hearts of stars, or how, for all the moon cares,
you and I are close enough to be considered
a single object, but none of it would be right.
Trying to make something like that
small enough to give.