Tell me—what makes a good apostle?
a god’s breath sighs
over the roof of your house
on a stormed-in night.
i heard god is the one
who pricks you with blackberry thorns
when you are out gathering.
the creek behind your grandfather’s house
runs full.
you are barefoot,
armed with a basket.
you reach, bleed,
eat greedily.
you taste blood and blackberry.
the berries stain your mouth.
i’ve heard god speaks quietly
because he does not want
to startle the deer.
his voice is lush, soft,
folded into the sound of the creek
as you fill your basket.
he is in the red beads
at the tips of your fingers.
when you eat, he slips
down your gullet and lies still,
murmuring at the back of your throat
as if to speak through your mouth—
but shy, shy—
i’ve seen god in the arch of your foot
stretching across a rock.
i’ve seen him in your desperate faith
when you leap
from bank to stone.
he watches you
like a fox hunting a rabbit.
a yearning, childless woman.
an oak straining under a vine.
he tastes your blood with you.
tell me—
how do you worship
without a name?
