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.











Searching for My Vida 



Man’s Best Friend



God Has a Zillion Refrigerators