The last words read from the newscast at night,
the first grace whispered over cold cornflakes by morning.
Once, I asked my mother to explain god to me
in terms that I could understand. She said god
was like a large man in an over-filled storage room,
playing with toys that just happened to fill oceans.
I said this didn't inspire much confidence, but mom
said that asking questions was the problem. Now
when I see my name written in vapor trails
spiraling like cigarette smoke from my mouth,
I've simply learned to accept it, learned
to breathe harder. Sick and tired and yearning
to be kissed on the forehead, I beg
to be read a bedtime story
about the creation of the world. I believe
all the stories about worlds of light
and darkness. If I didn't know anything
about tinkering around with sunlight,
I would still be trying my hardest to learn to dance.
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