I wanted a god of my own

We would be, my god and I, impeccable in our fallibility

I wanted a god who rode bicycles and cooked breakfast

Burnt her fingers and held them to my lips

A god who came home late waking me with her perfume

Reaching for me in the fumbling dark

I wanted a god whose name made my voice shake a little

Who tied shoelaces and undid my shirt buttons

Who ate cheese and crackers in front of the open fridge at 2AM

Who made eye contact like she was starting a fire

Who flirted like she was starting a fight

I wanted a broken god

I wanted the cracks, not filled with gold

Not disabused for her mortality

But a god that said please and thank you and how lovely your baby is

The holocaust beauty who paid my bus fare and held my hand crossing the street

Beauty like thunder. Soft as rainwater.

A colonising god

A giving and forgiving god

A loving god

A leaving god

A running and ruining god

A breaking and repairing god

A stitches, scabs, and antibiotics god

Translucent. Gossamer. Prismatic.

A god in ruin – commuting between divinity and mortality

A god who, if appeased,

Just might take me, might make me

Her own