Dana Clark

God is staring.
What has He done?
He cannot help His ugliness.

He glowers on the shelf
perched inside
Grandmother's urn.

The cat weaves bright patterns
in between legs
as the raw girl presses

her hand into the sweet,
clammy skin between another
girl's bare legs.

God's gaze
is a winter gust at confessions
that will never be released.