Tune in—it's prime time for mammals
with a prefrontal cortex and anxiety disorders
on a planet that is burning.
Mammal from mamma, meaning breast:
milk and three middle ear bones,
some booze-buoyed god drawing traits from a hat.
I’d fall for anyone who said my name aloud
when I least expected it. Wouldn’t you?
That's what gods are all about.
Recall Adam pointing at a feathered beast,
saying dodo, giggling, calling it a day.
But god's gone and so are the animals. What do we care?
We put mouths beside other people's genitals
and open—knock-off gods, all tongue and teeth,
names in our throats in the throes of it.
My still-new nephew woke to a sister.
When the infant cries, he laughs:
baby's funny Mamma, he says, and repeats, insists:
baby's funny. He doesn't have the words.
He longs to be so recently named.
I read to them from a board book Bible
while my coffee drowns itself in milk.
Once, in the middle of class, you said my name
and my body burned like ancient bramble.
Where then to find redemption
if not in you? Sorry, it's just my amygdala,
marble sized inside my head
and shaking. Or wait—scientists disagree,
could be something else entirely.
God, can we try this again?