Me: Sticks, stones, and silence. Dark beer, mirrors, paint, and blackberries.
(God, you know I’d name you, but you’re not a thing.
You’re a puzzle I will never solve.)
God: Feathers and fur. Fire and ice. Darkness and light when they shatter.
(I would say sacrifice, but you always get that wrong, so never mind.
It’s a thing, though. I assure you, it’s a thing.)
Me: Clean floors and bike rides. Threatening skies. Gnarled trees. Honesty.
(I don’t mind a little sacrifice, here and there. It adds texture.
It helps me see you. That might be good.)
God: Dogs. Horses. Cats. Earthworms. Birds. All birds. I love birds.
Birds eat earthworms. Cats eat birds. It’s all so tragically beautiful.
And chickens eat anything—even weaker chickens.
Me: Oh my God! Why do you always ruin things?
This isn’t fun. I don’t want to play anymore. You’re disgusting.
(God lets out a loud guffaw. Tears run down the wizened cheeks.)
God: Bone of my bone. Flesh of my flesh. The earth is my body, broken.
Like I said, you get a lot of things wrong. Especially sacrifice. And loss.
Hunger has a purpose, darling. Your uneasiness is holy.
Me: If holiness exists, it’s overrated. I don’t want to be holy.
You make me question everything all the time.
So, either it’s all holy or nothing is.
God: Agreed. Now, let’s get back to our favorite things.
Me: There’s no going back.
God: Chubby babies. Comets. Black people swimming in blue water. You.
Our eyes lock. I’m injured. Healed. Hungry and full. Something, nothing, holy, profane, resplendent with promise, soon to die. I throw my arm over God’s burly shoulder. We walk upright, eyes forward, leaning into the wind. A lot of our favorite things are blowing by.
Me: Not a big fan of wind.
God: Not sure which things to chase after?