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Stranger to the Divine

I have never met the Good Lord on the street.
I wouldn’t know Christ if He shook my hand and called my name.
But I have led myself to lie in green grass and known the smell of damp Earth: known the rain,
soft and sweet.
I know sacred ground in knowing my body: every inch of skin that wraps tight every pound;
I know the blue lightning that strikes hot and regular from the thunderhead between my ribs.
I have driven down deserted roads, laughing, fingers trailing, loneliness forgotten.
I have woken soft on cashmere Sundays.
I have danced barefoot/
I have danced draped in gold.
Do not condemn the daughters of Zion. Have you never been seventeen?
I have walked on water
(ears pink with cold)
clutching frozen fingers that were not my own, my chest filling with silent snow. 
I have found god (little g) in
cups of coffee/
clean teeth/
a static-ridden voice through the phone/
the light, holy, that streams, through the pink-stained glass of perfume bottles.
Hot showers/
the velvet flesh and gentle give of peaches/
the creaking sound reserved only for the motion of great objects.
I have walked a grid of stolen stars and known the sureness of concrete under my feet.
Don’t you dare tell me I don’t know Divinity;
I’m no stranger to the divine.




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