conversations with your god – a poem by Anna Ferris


conversations with your god


last night i spoke to your god.
he told me his head hurts.
how he loathes the cacophony 
of prayers, the sound
like
“a thousand trains 
on a thousand rusty tracks.”


he may have been holy once,
but now he is rotten
on the inside like a fruit 
left in the sun.

i fell to my knees 
like they taught me in church,
i played the sunday-school girl,
asked for mercy
and got misery.

your god laughed--
howled until he
spilled tears down his white robes.

 last night i fought with your god,
and shoved him out the door
like a no-good drunk.

he stumbled over his 
wild white beard

and splayed across my floor,
your god bloody on the tile,
as broken as we are.

i learned that yelling at god
and expecting him to answer 
is like throwing a glass at a wall
and expecting the wall to crumble.

your god heard me cry 
and he wept along,
and when i was done
we raged together.
monkey-see
monkey-do.
it is hard for him to give 
if all you do is take.

i looked in the mirror in the
winter morning.
and saw a girl 
instead of a wildfire 
for the first time.

god was a terrible roommate.
he used my shower.
he left on my lights.

and, just to let you know,
when he was done with me,
god took my coat
and meandered down to the seven eleven
for a payday bar and a bud light.

Anna Ferris is a high school writer from Pittsburgh, PA. She is a rising senior. Sometimes she is reading, sometimes she is walking. Sometimes both. She is Lebanese, Syrian, German, and human.

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