Say God is the tough in the prison yard
you’ve decided to take out. He’s the one
to help you make a strong name for yourself.
once He rises from bench-pressing twelve times
your sopping-wet weight, you make your move—bump
His stone shoulder, spinning yourself around.
He walks on unfazed. you square up, talk shit
about His momma, His unknown daddy.
you pluck His beard, spit in His face, punch Him
in the chest. slowly, He exhales, locks eyes,
shanks Himself in the side—sharpened toothbrush
sinking to the bristles—then walks away.
stumbling back from blood, you’re forced to wonder
what He would be willing to do to you.
