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1.
my mother tells me about god
when i'm in diapers
i see a large man
kind of like my grandfather
and in synogogue, sipping
juice, i think,
"this is what god tastes like."

2.
barefoot in my backyard,
white and bare and skinny legged
the warm and dusty air
is bright wuth fireflies,
brinking on and off like my
litebrite, and i think,
"this is what god looks like."

3.
first time i see the ocean,
i root myself in
the sand, gritty toes,
and squeeze my eyes shut.
smelling holy raw sea-salt
air, i think,
"this is what god smells like."

4.
radio's broken, cold winter,
too quiet in the house.
i sift through daddy's oddly

large records, pull out 'billie
holiday'; it's this desperate
hungry voice, and i think:
"this is what god sounds like."

5.
lying sweaty, warm and tired
in an afternoon bed with
him, skin stuck together with
heat, soft touch that
slides, i hold his hand
and face, and i think
"this is what god feels like."

6.
god is not a thing, or person
god is not even a reality.
god is a place to credit
our own marvelous, everyday discoveries
and name as a source of our wonder.
all these "god" moments are
mine, and no one else's.

i found them, and no god
will take the credit.