Visitor

After Dorianne Laux

If god did show up at my window,
she would certainly have black wings,
be draped in velvet and blood red beads.
She’d carry books of old poetry and
the moon and stars would be burned
into the palms of her hands
so she could carry us with her always.
Her eyes would be oceans,
hold underwater universes. And,
every time she blinked, she’d cry
a sea salt flood; the kind that heals
overworked muscles and
smells of eucalyptus and mint green.
She’d pull me into her opal dark feathers
and I’d live under her winged breast
like a dark fledgling chick, as she feeds
me strings of beautiful sentences
from her mouth and whispers,

now, go write it.