WOODY WOODGER

My friend says even god takes a day off.

I say, a day? That fucker’s been scamming

Social Security since decency’s flaky twilight,

his checks postmarked Precambrian. We inherited

only the crumbles of compassion he’s wicking

off his beard. I mean, Adam couldn’t be bothered

to shoot Eve a simple heads-up txt?—Hey babe,

we’re going bonespo today. Apples off limits.

Oh and don’t watch ahead in Rick and Morty

again. God didn’t put arsenic in the apple seeds

until us humans invented the IRS and divvied

Eden into timeshares. Months ago,

I was mixing ketamine glazed thumb tacks

into my trail mix before my doctor-decreed

Saturday morning hike. Flip my Tarot cards

and the first one you get is The Toddler, alone,

opening the barn door. The second—The Buzzsaw

dad left running on the workbench. To me, saws

used to sear with god’s tiny judgements.

But now there’s this body snoring next to me.

The diesel motor in her caught a case of apnea.

I’m the feather her purrs can barely keep afloat.

But should she have to? She reminds me every day

that the universe is the only umbilical cord

you have forever, and look, honey, she says, your belly

button’s sutured closed. To me, the belly button’s

the only proof god contracted us—a wormhole

the electricians installed by the baseboard. An eventuality

you have the urge to stick a fork into, see if it’s done.