FOR THE SAKE OF MY DADDYS NEEDS

Tell me—what makes a good apostle?

a god’s breath sighs over the roof of your house on a stormed-in night.

i heard god is the one who pricks you with blackberry thorns when you are out gathering. the creek behind your grandfather’s house runs full. you are barefoot, armed with a basket.

you reach, bleed, eat greedily. you taste blood and blackberry. the berries stain your mouth.

i’ve heard god speaks quietly because he does not want to startle the deer. his voice is lush, soft, folded into the sound of the creek as you fill your basket.

he is in the red beads at the tips of your fingers. when you eat, he slips down your gullet and lies still, murmuring at the back of your throat as if to speak through your mouth— but shy, shy—

i’ve seen god in the arch of your foot stretching across a rock. i’ve seen him in your desperate faith when you leap from bank to stone.

he watches you like a fox hunting a rabbit. a yearning, childless woman. an oak straining under a vine. he tastes your blood with you.

tell me— how do you worship without a name?

And so the Earth Went Rogue