When I stopped believing in God
I was struck dumb, insensate, 
reflecting on the kitchen incident. 
The bathroom incident. The bedroom
incident, incipience of useless desire.
Memory is a bitch, trotting out trifles
while the main thrust of the narrative
continues on its way. It’s Darwinian,
the back story of my bank account, 
this globule of spit I want to eject
from my mouth. When I stopped
believing in God, I was rummaging 
around in the junk drawer, the jewelry 
box, the locked safe, for something
I needed to proceed. —How to speak 
of this precisely? Longing is a chandelier 
made of twine that doesn’t snap, but
merely hangs: misery, temps suspendu.
I gave up on the dream of omnibenevolence
long ago; now someone else is the legal 
guardian of my body, mind, and soul.  
My tongue lolls. My divine portion is 
a liquid lunch, a time-stamped email, 
a paramilitary parade. When I stopped
believing in God, nothing happened.
God would have wanted it that way.