if god’s a woman, she wears a cowgirl hat and rides like the sky’s splitting open between her thighs.

she tastes like honeysuckle wine
from heaven’s basement.

her eyes are the shade of eden
before exile.

she’s got the body of a country song
and the soul of a sicilian shotgun.

she speaks the mother tongue
of every woman that ever burned
for glowing too bright.

her lips make medusa look
like a sunday school teacher.

she smells like the part of the forest
that even dionysus fears.

her boots carry the gospel
of genesis' most indecent secrets.

she wears her rosary like a promise
and her levi’s like a punishment.

she births wings out of her wounds.
she’s alabama in august.
a fever dream with freckles.
raised catholic.
olive skin.
wild with serpents.
you don’t survive her,
you convert.

she makes me say amen
with my whole body.

she calls it prayer.
i call it please don’t stop.