"It's Possible I'm Projecting" - Rebekah Orton

I picture Her
a Heavenly Hausfrau:
bare celestial feet,
breasts heavy above an eternally rotund belly.

She’s stirring a pot of lentil soup
with a spirit child on each hip
while twelve trillion toddlers crowd Her knees
insisting they won’t try it.

Caught between sharp elbows,
She shakes Her sheets early
and showers with an audience.
Her sky is streaks of spilled white milk,
dirty diapers, piles and piles of unmatched socks.
Her Holy hands work while all those children
track mud across Her vast, perpetual carpet.

In a productive rage,
She scrubs and wonders
When was the last time she sat down to a hot meal?
Why does everyone keep rubbing their snotty noses
on Her skirt, Her sleeves, Her skin?

She can’t even hide Her Glory in Kolob’s bathroom
long enough to eat a beatific cookie in peace
without little fingers searching underneath the door
as shrill voices whimper “choc-lat?”

Please let that just be me.
I’d rather think She’s serene, azure.
Twice a day She cleans her paintbrush,
and every night She fills the sky with stars:
lights to calm us.


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