Emma William-Margaret Rebholz

I don’t know god’s pronouns

and I find this embarrassing. if I show up to god’s heaven
all angelic and shit, what if I address god the wrong way?
I hope god addresses me with every new name I’ve given
myself. I want to hear my first and middle and last tumble
slow and important from god’s mouth. I don’t capitalize god
but I do capitalize my first name. there must be a complex
in there somewhere. I’ve never dreamt about god or heard
god speaking, even through an angel like “crazy” people say.
no offense joan of arc. does god ever get tired of dreaming
of us like renegade ants in god’s 71% aquatic farm? do god’s dreams
spontaneously become our present, or are they like sunlight,
always traveling a few minutes behind our eyes? how can we be sure
that god isn’t what’s sitting at the bottom of the ocean? I bet
god could see in that kind of dark. dark like deep space.
dark like before light was, you know, created. god seems shifty
like that. or maybe god is just too shy to introduce godself properly.
hey, does god have a crush on me? check yes no maybe. is god waiting
for me to make the first move? maybe god is also embarrassed
because god doesn’t know my pronouns either, and is hoping
for an invitation to a very hip, very queer mixer. nobody has to die
to get an invite but you do have to be gay. are you there god?
it’s me, Billy. I’m bringing pink moscato. and a whole damn pie.