Thirst

I am color-blocked in cubicle greys.

I blame God for not loving me enough

To pave roads carved into arms that sprawl, spread, and wrap

Like the wrinkles of 

The Tennessee terrain

Outlined
In red
Along the map.

Was He deliberate as romance?

They said Song of Songs would rain down

Like a honey dance and we would be 

Drenched bees, 
Mouths opened wide,

Just living in it. 

But 

My throat has been cut out.

I blame the God of voice boxes;

Of bent, tiny feet.
The God of lost ribbons 

Who stole my grandmother too soon.

I blame the God "refuge"-

Hudled bricks 

And crimson pews

Where women fan themselves,

Talking about 

Young ones with 

Inseams too short

Who are waiting too long for marriage.

Because...
"We are the reckless, we are the wild youth,
Painting visions of our futures..."

And the crotches of trees are too full

Of twigs for birds to nest.

Jesus! If you're real, make my shoulders stop hurting.

You took away the one who rubbed them best. 

Then you put your God knife to my gut throat.

Yet you did not cut the desperate question out.

And you drown me down to residue with Truth to sing about.

"You're a good, good father.
 It's who You are."

And I do know I'm loved by You.
I do.

I'm just a gaping spaghetti-o can licking orphan-cat
Confused. 

Will my brash tenacity
Still quake like the sound
Of gambling coins 

When I'm old like you?

Jesus. I'm a harlot.

Sponge bathe me in your
Crude,
Crimson
Blood.

Circumfuse.