I do not expect, O Lord, to ever believe in you again.
There was a time when your body was sunlight and you spoke through chills and inklings. I heard angelic choirs in an engine’s whining shudder. All history was evidence of your existence, and the lightning bolt a proof.
These days you get drunk and fall off bar stools. You were a trillion light years across; now you’re roommates with Zeus in the back of my skull, and you hammer on the bone walls in the hopes I’ll let you out.
I never will, though I sometimes allow you walk-on parts in my fantasies. With real fondness I watch you ham up your old omnipotence—beautiful again despite your destroyed face, amen.
Later I see you in the shared kitchen, slumping in a stained t-shirt over fried sausages and ketchup eggs, cheating at a crossword. With a grunt you lean back to open the fridge, glancing over the magnet-hung photos of Mary in her prime and the all-star son himself, handsome as ever.
You drink the grape juice straight from the bottle.