Testament

by Lydia Popowich

God is the fizz/pop of a failing light bulb.
God is Wagner’s Götterdämmerung.
God is a warning sign on a sharp bend.
God is a shoe salesman in a designer shop
or an invisible splinter in the sole of your foot.
God is the knot in your umbilical cord.

God is one segment of a chocolate orange
or an ice cube in a shaken not stirred.
God is a teaspoon of honey in your hot toddy.
God is butter melting on toasted crumpet
or an onion on the chopping board.
God is a sandwich cut into tiny squares.
God is the steady drip of a leaking tap
or a pair of curtains that gape in the middle.
God is an old phone in the back of a drawer
or a set of cookie cutters in fancy shapes.

God is a dandelion clock on a windy day,
the scent of wet earth in a forest.
God is a daub of yellow paint on blank canvas.
God is a game of truth or dare.
God is a broken windscreen in the fast lane
or a hit and run on a dark street.
God is the black rain of Chernobyl,
a lone wolf in the Carpathian Mountains.
God is a white feather on your path,
the gardener who prunes hard every winter.