what you might
not have guessed is that heaven 
is nothing but a house at 
the end of the street. 
a very big house, but a house.
it's bigger on the inside than
the outside. a front door. a lock.
st. peter born again & again
into the body of a jack russel terrier. 
jesus feeds him bones beneath
the kitchen table. he barks 
angrily when people arrive too
early. purgatory, the freshly
mowed front law. everything 
is domestic, but especially violence.
oh god of love 
oh god of mercy & 
the broom handle & heavy 
granite fingers. 
oh god of love
oh god of mercy &
blue the color of bruises. 
what is to be assumed of 
a powerful man who demands 
worship is just about always true.
call him lord or yahweh or father,
he will find a way to hurt you.
halos hung on the coat wrack,
all the lay people in the attic,
mary, again, tucking jesus
into the cabinet below the sink,
putting her finger to her lips.
hold your breath
while he passes
his steel-toed boots by the door.
his hunger & the kitchen table.
his flickering love in the form
of newly created flowers
in a mason jar on the table. 
fear is the color white.
what no one suspected 
was her to leave that sunday night.
the table all set. 
holy mary mother of god
having laid down each place for each 
person & angel, the innumerable all.
our mother ran with only a backpack
full of roses. her halo 
still on the towel wrack. she wouldn't
need it anymore. 
earth, strangely warm & grey.
ambling through the Bethesda Terrace 
in central park she laughed 
at how much she had missed 
having a real body. On the lip
of the foundation, standing a step taller,
pressing her hands together & praying:

Me, Mother who art not in heaven
hollowed make my name.
I will run till 
thy kingdom's undone 
on earth as it is in heaven.
I won't forgive you this day
you fucked me dead,
and had the nerve to 
call me virgin.
what kind of god makes
a son like this?