The Tired Atheist
By Kate Camp
In my hand I hold a mouse
a golden labrador
and a cat, all the same size.
Yes I assume the mythical plenty of a god
where my eyes look become green hills
red houses, skies necessarily blue.
In Córdoba the smell of shit and orange blossom
TVs await the Pope, that puff of smoke
who knows what they burn to make it black or white.
Of course I don’t want to live apart from God’s grace.
What kind of idiot would force air from their lungs
or retch up water?
No, behold the mismade agonies
of those who attempt to hear with the tongue
or eat with the eyes, forcing crusts of bread under the lids.
Behold the quiet substance of their rooms
the hollow air in the cavities of their bodies
the finity of their lives, tasting like morning
now you tell me, if one knows everything
and one knows nothing
what the f*ck are they going to talk about?