sneaking into god's bedroom

we want to try in his clothes.
swallow his jewelry just like we did
with our parents'. there is a mirror here
where all you can see
are your sins. they come in the form
of insects. centipedes & weevils. 
put a blanket over the mirror.
in a drawer we find a gun with a bullet
ready inside. the gun says,
"happy birthday" & we run away from it.
a bedroom is so much like a grave.
here is where you go to be blood nothing. 
where you keep your stories
about the end. how & when you plan 
to take all the wallpaper with you.
i have never seen god. only his bedroom.
only his bottle of pills & his stale glass
of water. when my brother & i
snuck into our parents' room i always
left with something. a lipstick.
a bottlecap. i don't know what 
i was harvesting. their fragments.
proof we were kin. dust beneath
the bed. god has a painting of us
on his wall. the faces look all wrong.
like smudges. like they have been smudged 
from rubbing a thumb across the pigment. 
i have long wondered how many bedrooms
i am carrying. comforters & tissues
blooming like flowers across the ground.
god has a television without a plug. god has
a bible only when you open it
there are no words inside. 
the windows are open but no air
comes in, just the sound of construction.
the street outside is being gutted.
they're probably searching
for plastic babies again. my favorite thing
i ever took from god was
a little eye of the bird yet to be born. 
i found it on the windowsill.
maybe curing. maybe sun-bleaching. 
ran my fingers across the surface 
& promised the never creature,
"i will not take you back here."