Whitney Rio-Ross

YOUR BODY IS GOING THROUGH CHANGES

Sundays were for shadow puppets
and papier-mâché, glue sticks smoothing

sacred texts. God was lion mask and goldfish.
God was the Christmas pageant star.

God was not a girl. The earth he made
with apples seeds, the heavens with half-priced glitter.

We danced, and God smiled.

Drop the crayon,
take a tampon.

Sundays are for silver crosses
and I’m sorry, prayer groups circling

rumors. God is purity vow and camp deposit.
God is a one-piece swimsuit.

God is not a girl. Our hips he made
with hunger, our tongues with minty silence.

We kneel, and God tells us to smile.