I need to swim in God
like a river—
to drown.
I want to be a catfish
feeding on holy muck
at the bottom of the lake
that silvers
God’s ankles
around the white throne.
Sixty-six books
and prayer
is not enough.
I want to swing between God’s arms,
a child between her parents
flying down the gravel road:
one for the money,
two for the show,
Father, Son,
and Holy Ghost.
