Her last name was Quisenberry, that
I remember. And that we climbed down the split
level's stairs where she showed me God,
boxed, padded with tissue. He was small enough
to fit inside me, and a dusty bronze color.
That's not God, I said, God doesn't wear a skirt.
She said, Oh yes it is!

He's still watching me from his rough
face, his ribbed chest and pleats,
incessant and tiresome. Quisinberry,
a meddler, was round and easily dominated
and showed me God the Meddler. His first
name is Jesus and his last name is
an eye roll. He's police, watching
some kid light up, rounding the corner
with his head as big as weather.
His mouth is utterly orderly. He waits
in his pen of polite; Quisinberry wanted
to climb in there with him, not seeing
what we'd made of that space in only two
thousand years. Wherever you are, Q, I hope
you know they're rounding the corner
with heads bigger than weather to chuck him
out, him and whoever's with him.