Screaming at God. (the nice thing about a blanket fort)

(Or a depression pit,
As my wife half-jokingly calls it,
Hoping to remind me
Not to get to comfortable, that
I can’t stay too long)

But the nice thing is
If you tuck yourself in just right,
If your toes are all covered and you’re properly warm and cozy
and finally starting to calm down –
If you settle in that moment,
You can feel God
in the quiet space around you –

and you can trap that motherfucker
In between your heartbeats
And wring his neck
In your shaking hands,
Demand to know
Who the fuck hurt him –

So you can go back
To before the Big Bang
To when God was just a whisper
Suckling at the breast of the Universe, and fix whatever
Heinous thing
Destroyed the heart of the Lord,
Made him cruel enough
To invent pain –

And the best thing about a blanket fort
Is when you’re finished
Screaming at God,
The Goddess will stroke your hair.
“There, there,” she sings,
A lullaby of daydreams –
“Give it all to God.
It is not yours to carry.”

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