Found in Willow Springs 71
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Lord, make me a glitter ceiling that sings Billie Holiday songs
to distract me when the men start shouting down the street
and I only want to hear crickets and a dishwasher hum
and Billie's sweet croon. Make me a tree house
full of sandwiches, Lord--Thanksgiving stuffing sandwiches
with extra butter, tomato & pesto sandwiches, peanut butter
& cinnamon sandwiches--and let all of my sandwiches
be on my favorite thick white bread, the kind my shitty doctor says
I'm not supposed to eat anymore. Lord, let me just rest
on a bed of ciabatta, plug my ears with dough and disappear
into the spongy holes. Make me a romantic comedy marathon
and a German Shepherd that won't shed and won't piss the house.
Make me a party with bite-sized appetizers, loafers and heels,
and let everybody laugh for all the right reasons, and let them stay
and stay. Lord, just make me an invisible cape, and the next time
my boss straightens his tie to tell me everything I'm doing wrong,
I'll be out the door and into the sun. Make me camouflage
from the alley fence, the broken glass, the flattened pigeon wings,
and let it wrap around my stupid heart and make me stand,
unseen. Make me small and forgettable, Lord. Or make me a taser.
A faster runner, a black belt, a booby trap--I'll be crowbar,
blowtorch, razor blade, and fresh ice on concrete. Make me
the eight-inch chef's knife under the mattress, the one I stole
from my parents' kitchen. Make me a padlock and a panic button.
Make me a night-light, a cell phone that won't die in the dark.
Make me sleep. Make me wake up on time. Make me a fist,
a gun, a hit list of my own. Or, Lord, just make me a man.
