Portrait of God as a Mother Stegosaurus
Except that I build
hatchlings from marrow, except
rivals gnash and pierce one another’s skulls
for the pleasure of my body
except that I am yet, sapling
unfinished, ringing into my own possibility
when the future is demanded of me
except that I am armor
and will not be taken by whim or deceit—
what do they see in my inner architecture,
except the endling in themselves?
Portrait of God as an American Assisted Living Facility
God is a dandelion woman in a cotton pink robe
who doesn’t care the buttons are loose.
God is a locked door with a keypad.
An afternoon woman with smeared mascara
waltzes with her father;
God is the window between.
God falls down again.
The swing nurse who touches the shoulder
of the man whose mother calls him
by her husband’s name—is also God.
God is an uneaten pudding cup
left behind, just in case.
The wandering, the wrestling,
the not-schizophrenic ones
swallowing Haldol to quiet the halls
are God, too.
God is a corner TV at top volume,
reruns of Happy Days in an empty room.
God is no visitors today.
She seems so familiar, thinks God,
this round-faced woman
who brings ice cream and photographs.
God is a small paper cup.
God is the garden wall,
espaliered apple branches.
God is climbing.
The nearest stop, less than a mile.
God is the number twelve bus,
the nasal sting of exhaust.
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Patricia Caspers is an award-winning columnist, journalist, and poet. She’s the author of Some Flawed Magic (Kelsay Books, 2021) and In the Belly of the Albatross (Glass Lyre Press, 2015). She is a Unitarian Universalist and the founding editor-in-chief of West Trestle Review.