youth group on Sunday nights 

was where God made himself 
into a can
of soda & shook.

his baptism in the kiddie pool,
leftover lip girl. rice in the mouth of
the end of summer came down & spilled me.
looking for the paper towels. girls
made for plastic drinking cups, me.
write a name on your forehead,
not your name though.

everyone in the bible has 
more than  one name, he gets
to call you what he wants.

Our Father was outside: a moth
biting the orange porch light. 
(we always knew they had teeth).
Hail Mary: a grub in the damp lawn,
her body see through, christ:
an unnameable organ. 

i had never been  more afraid 
then when we would pray. a lack 
of certainty, like opening
the front door to a house before
it is yours. fumbling with a key
while a mail box watches.

the catholic girl is a kind of
parable for believing 
in ghosts. she eats god every week.
is a flesh made of flesh eating flesh.
he will ask you another time--

he will save you again & again
in the ways you never wanted. 
he checks your skin for ash,
rubs it off with his thumb.
this is love. 

lifting hands i imagined swallowing
a dove & letting it thrash in 
my throat. kissing him & 
his whole body filling with feathers.

would he float up? would god
then finally open his damn mouth 
& tell us that he love love loved
the kids gathered in the top room
of a church. bags of pretzels.

the incense pours without warning,
out my mouth. angry rose & frankincense.
smoke beating wings. he will
hold you in the back seat. he will
smell your neck & say you're beautiful.