Tired Of Gods

I'm tired of gods

who come down from above

and blind us with their fire.

I'm waiting for a god born

from the belly of an earthworm,

with, instead of wings,

fungi cilia flying

underground through hummus,

alchemizing the detritus

of moldering bodies 

to live again

and rise into green nipples

for the suckle of hummingbirds 

and butterflies.

That too would be a Christ,

a Son, loam-born 

of a single Mother.

And the Father?

He would stand Wordless,

bewildered,

barefoot in the mud,

leaning on his ancestral hoe.

 

 

Painting: 'Man With A Hoe,' Francois Millet, 1863