Fear of God

It never occurs to me to address god,
whoever she is. It occurs to me that
that reads like a bumper sticker joke.
It’s true I must ignore or hide from
god because when I was a small girl
he was in every classroom, full of
spite and smite, palms full of nails.
Father son and little bone-carved
replicas of suffering floating over
the threshold. Was I left with a
paucity in the shape of god.
Have I been running and hiding
from god and other angry men
my whole life. I’m trying to imagine
a god I could talk to: jocular, gentle,
rocking a chair on a porch at sundown.
Long white hair and a nightgown.
But instead I see myself ducking down
a stairwell to a garden apartment
during a storm, and the lightning and
thunder is god, not a stranger opening
the door, as I did once for a boy named
Mohammed when we lived on the other
side of town. The rain and wind were
punishing. A knock came at the door.
We’d read the Bible. We knew what to do.
But as a woman alone, I never would
have answered; such is the fear of god.