The Night I Met my God by David Spicer
THE NIGHT I MET MY GOD
I hiked to her pot farm.
Gazing from an Oregon cabin window,
she immersed herself in Milton, Mary
Shelley, Bukowski, and Dickinson.
She feasted on a supper
of porcupine quills and lily salad,
washing them down with Epiphany,
her homegrown Chardonnay.
She sparkled like the constellations
in her eyes after the last
of twenty thunderclaps that evening.
I introduced myself as a comic-shaman.
I treated her indigestion with terrible jokes
until we groaned laughter.
I told her, No god is an island.
She smiled, handed me an angel catalogue.
Take two, young man.
I’d like the lark called
Meadow and the dove named Peace.
God finger-whistled and they appeared.
Before I departed at dawn,
she embraced me and her winged friends.
gave me a shadow for the morning.
She revealed her face of ten billion years
of souls who created her in their image,
radiating light, personified and pure.