On the Magic of our Origin Story

I remember when the term “God” no longer suited us
and what we had created.
Invoked in despair, desperation or pleasure
all no longer big enough to hold you.
I even made an atheist say it once
“Ohh, my God” he’d rasped
in between shallow, bare breaths
“Oh my…Who?” I inquired
as my teeth glistened in the moonlight

I could almost hear You
laughing at my irreverence.
I’ve never been able to hide from You
so I’ve simply accepted
that You’d be there
anyway, anyhow.

Even in that tiny Brooklyn bedroom.
Even in the frustrating silences
when I’ve most wanted You
to speak the whole fuck up.

Forgive me, friends
for what is most loved about me
is that I am the one who dares.
Most don’t like that,
but You do.

…

• a fragment from the poem “At the Root, There It Was”, written about exploring and accepting one’s origins shamelessly— for therein lies our magic. Selected to be published in the New York Writer’s Coalition’s Journal, March 2022.

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