Last night, you dreamt of god as a snake-oil salesman and the moon on his last cigarette. There were mushrooms turning thousand-eyed and frogs bleeding hymns and hilltops heavy with ghosts. In an apartment sticky with light you meet a girl with stars for fingernails. You kiss her palms. You turn wine to water. You steal the teeth from god’s mouth.
The girl smears her secrets across your tongue, tells you to bury your breasts, your bibles, in the backseat of her minivan. The next time you see her, she’s knee-deep in a river, waves bruising the insides of her thighs. She cleaves the horizon in two, steals her words from the timeline where you find your missing hands in your mom’s favorite church and suture them to the wrong fists.
And you can’t help but imagine this: bus stops battered with rain, a
thousand bishops on their knees, you and the
starry-nailed girl: in
bloom, petals around your faces, swallowing each other’s breaths. Tonight,
you will dream of churches lodged in your ribcage,
their steeples periscoping through your chest.