I hold a lighter to the dandelion.
God, You designed it so well:
a globe in flames, then gone.
All the children there, then none.
God, give me something besides wine
and hanging clothes to dry.
Give me the rigidity of a structured fear.
Don’t give me those eyes or that false Godly wit.
I haven’t had time for that since I was young
and certain and all that.
After all,
we will all go directly to Hell,
and I before the others, in my bright green dress.
God gave me some kind of peace of mind
when I was four.
I put it in my hands and made it make sounds under the water.
Now I throw a boiled egg
still inside its shell
into the river, fresh with glacier water
warmed by shit from horses, donkeys,
and even a lion they say, no doubt
locked up somewhere, roaring,
like the seashells I collected
through the years.
God asked, What do you hear?
I replied, A cow, or maybe a song?
and crept out on my belly to see a river of cows
walking together down the autobahn.
Elisabeth Blair is a poet, composer and feminist podcaster currently based in Michigan. Her poetry has previously appeared in publications including S/tick, Wicked Alice, Dead Flowers: A Poetry Rag, The Literary Bohemian, Lilliput Review, and Acumen. In 2016 her first chapbook, We He She/It, was published by dancing girl press. In 2017 she was an associate artist at the Atlantic Center for the Arts, studying with poet Heather McHugh.
