This morning I want you to soak me
in rain that chisels my skin, signals a storm’s sudden
attack. For you to stand with me in a white, clapping field,
lightning striking centimetres
from our toes, mouths open as we’re filled like bottles.
I want you to point out the red organs flowering through my skin.
I want you to hurl me onto a rock face and say
climb. Yes. I want even the bin bags at the front gate
to split and the ordered china in the dining room cabinet to explode.
I want you to take a spray can to the city,
words glittering on billboards and bridges and my letterbox.
I want you to take me up on the hill,
point out my old house and the cherry tree we planted,
fierce as ever. God, I want to feel
the very breath burn
through my throat and lungs, my toe nails
to dig into the thick soil, and now
in a language I do not know but which tinkles
in silver and gold, verb conjugations
to bloom again and again in tiny, shivering violets
exploding from my mouth.
'God, Yes' was published in our 3rd issue, The Liberate Issue, which is available to buy here.