Confession

I worship idols.

I kneel to a statue of a monkey,
Bring a bag of oranges as an offering,
To the hindu personification of
Perfect devotion to God.

I call my lover a prophet,
and not only in bed. I think I
am serious about it.
I rub cocoa butter on his toes
and think every word is relic
that raises from his mouth.
I hold a bowl out to catch
his spout of wisdom, and trail my fingers
seven times around his temple of a dick.

My role models are Indian saints, small children with big mouths, the Virgin Mary who appears in images all over the world, Jesus as the revolutionary, Rabbis with big families and beards and laughing smiles because they don’t know where they are going to get the money for next months bills.

I’m a fan of idols.
I break the first commandment.

I unfold the origami bird of myself
and along the way
I discover the creases so perfect
How God with just a fingernail
Could form a miracle.

I wash the feet of Sadhus in my dreams
and awake with my hands sweaty.
I repent for days wasted, for grandmothers
who have lost their taste for the world,
and for myself when I am as short-sided
as a frightened bat.

I imagine the more gods I invoke,
The better chance I have of one arriving
(how would that be?)
when I need a hand placed on my forehead,
and a recipe drawn.