[Untitled]

I used to think that I would find God again
in a woman’s breast pressed into the palm of my hand
her soft, tired whisper landing on my tongue at the end of the night.
I still look for her
but I have found God
in the dark corners of a small apartment,
fragrant — something on the stove —
alone, starting over.
And I have found God
in sacred solidarity with every working person
who talks harder against capitalism
without ever learning the theory —
whose steps fall into rhythm with mine
clocking in to rent our bodies and voices out another eight hours
or longer.
Usually longer, it seems like.
I have found god
while she is elusive, and
her name is used by many things that are not her
and still she goes by many names.
One day, maybe I will breathe one of them against a woman’s neck
on her jawline, and into her mouth
and for a moment,
be saved.