God Almighty

By Grace Marsh

It might be daft 

to dance with Jesus at a gay bar, to show 

him the imprint of my red lipstick kiss —

how it, how I, stain cheeks and lips and outstretched

hands; how he can, too, if only 

he stays hungry enough.

It might be fun 

to call Jesus my carer and pull him 

into the disabled toilet; to offer 

him a key, to be with him while 

he does his first bump. 

Oh, the revelations.

It might be kind

to teach Jesus all the joys and the sins of the flesh —

to find him a body made exactly in his image,

a mirror he can embrace and taste 

and be fucked by.

It might be odd

to be his first unhealable cripple, to see 

him walking on water while my feet hover 

above the land — 

there is a lesson here, 

somewhere.

By Grace Marsh