Conduit

After years
of being an atheist,
god has come back to me,
accidentally--a collective god,
the godhead, the great spirit,
a yahweh, whatever.
I still mostly ignore it.
I still only pray
to the shifting soil of ants
and confess to my peers.

Here's a
confession: I dream of holding
my dead dog for hours.

A confession: I want to sleep
on the floor, in a ball, all day.

Confession: a man outside my window
asks his crying daughter, "Are you hurt
or are you scared?" And after
a moment, repeats, "Are you hurt,
or are you scared?"
Scared! I shout from upstairs.

Confession: after class I cry hysterically.
I can't even make it home.
I sit at a bus stop on Broadway
and sob.

Confession: when I see you, unexpectedly,
my heart is a drowning train car,
a free-falling elevator,
a bird in a cage, an empty bus on Broadway.
I reach out to touch you, to feel
a few hairs beneath my fingertips.
My hand does not make it.

Confession: I hugged everyone
too hard. I needed
their hearts.

Confession: when I got home,
my sister held me, thank god
she was there, while I hiccuped
over the sink.

Confession: I slept through
the afternoon, reaching out
for water, and tossing and twisting,
listening to my roommate
move through the apartment alone.
It's cold in here today
with all the broken windows.

Confession: I dreamt of making love
to a woman with a wide,
pale gash on the back
of her thigh.
I will never see her
again. I don't know where
she came from.

Confession: sometimes I think
that's what god is.
When you make love
to an imaginary stranger
but still remember
their scars.