after a (former) friend excuses orlando
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.