If I were a Christian and god were a big ole fat lady in a muumuu 

with a cotton head strap to catch the sweat and wore big ole purple

potato-sack panties, and she bore down and got all ugly in the face

pushing pushing pushing pushing through to China with those

heavy-assed childbirth triggers, then I would be her house slave

and I'd rush to her gruesome diabetic orchid to catch her glowering

god born scat, and as her house slave I'd hold her dooty far away

from myself, reverential, but close enough, 'cause I'd wanna love it,

that shining spent pile of divinity that I'd have naught the foggiest

mind what to do with, but that I'd know was clearly up to me to deliver.

Erin Wilson has contributed poems to San Pedro River Review, Up the Staircase Quarterly, New Madrid, Tipton Poetry Journal, and Mobius, The Journal of Social Change, among others, with work forthcoming from West Texas Literary Review and Split Rock Review. She lives and writes in a small town in northern Ontario.