god, can i call you baby?
this silly bitch needs you.
i fucked up again, god. but you know that already.
that's one nice thing about you: breaking the news is always easy.
you shake your head and tell me i know better.
is it blasphemy to let my love for you blend and bleed
into mere mortal soul-sharing?
you say girl child, do what you need to.
god, can i call you sister?
everyone is always asking you to show them the way;
perhaps you should mark it more clearly next time.
i want to believe that you don't set on anyone a weight
heavier than their backs can bend to,
but people are crushed to death daily.
are you, curly-haired pretty sister,
mother, maiden, crone,
jesus and mary in one,
the same warlike, detached, wrathful tactician
that killed pharoh's firstborn?
are you zeus and athena simultaneously, breaking out of your own head?
all i know is i close my eyes in the shower and you trickle my shame away
you tilt my head back and protect my eyes with the washcloth,
supporting my heavy head with a steady hand,
pouring the warm rinsewater through my hair.
god, i've got a lot of hair-rinsing to do.
i've gotten so good at sinning, i can do it in my sleep.
you say, baby doll. don't worry about me,
but you gotta stop taking your own name in vain.
god, can i call you collect?
my dimes are rolling away in all directions,
my coin currency doesn't match the phone,
and i'm tired.
god, can i call you mine?
i know, i know. only if i call myself yours.
sister, savior,
you got yourself a deal.