The God of Class & Suffering
I met God last night
at a small office in Cambridge.
She sat on an egg, a gift by Arne Jacobsen.
And she glowed in a navy double breasted blazer,
personally designed by Pierre Balmain.
“When it comes to scents”, she whispered,
“I only trust women”
One Intense by Patricia de Nicolaï.
In her hands, a small leather bound book,
A signed edition of The Leaves of Grass.
And I stared,
And I must have stared all night.
As on earth, as in the sky.
I met God last night
at a shattered home in Rimal.
She sat on rubble, dedicated by an F-15i.
And she radiated with burns intricately designed
by white, and not so white, phosphorus.
“If you smell matches and garlic,” she whispered
“That must be I!”
In her hands, the remains of a doll,
once held by a child,
once loved by a child,
before we learned how to kill,
before we explained away suffering,
and long before she was taught how to die.
And I stared,
And I must have stared all night.
As on earth, as in the sky.
