God Has a Zillion Refrigerators

God has a zillion refrigerators, and

I am one. Inside find hot sauce of anger,

frozen chicken hearts. Open my door to see

baked goods, baked bads, half baked ideas.

Stand before me, God, like a teenage boy,

staring till you find my two percent, and

drink me straight from the carton. Towards

the back, lurk containers of curdled hopes,

long past their expiration dates. Bend

before me God, a small girl searching,

searching for the pearl of last night’s tapioca.

In my crisper, most has gone soft and limp,

though some cilantro still puts forth new leaf.

Kneel before me, God, housewife of my soul;

wipe away the sticky bits, the spills, the spots,

clean up the fruits, unused, dried or decaying.

Open my door, God, and let my light come on.

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