God

Brayden Kimbrough

I sat by the words of a laconic God 

His scripture like stickers on decoupage  

He broke all my fingers, contorted my words 

And plucked every feather from heavenly birds 

 

It’s a tall history riddled with ivory fixtures 

Why are our teeth bloody in all of these pictures? 

God is a heart in the eye of De Soto 

God eats my eyes with rye and risotto 

 

I saw God outside a hotel in New Orleans 

Smoking cigars with bartenders and whores  

He flipped me the bird and then stepped in a cab  

He wiped tears from his eyes with a Burberry rag  

 

God is the hands of defeated workers 

The blood and the knife and the screaming of murder 

God is a place where calm heads lay to die 

God is my bedroom on a Saturday night 

Spring 2021