God Made My Whole Body

and the way it moves, and the way it shakes and jiggles and plops, and
God made my smile and the thousand tears that fall from my eyes,
God made the sun and the moon and the leaf held loosely in my
godson’s perfect little hand, and God made the summer breeze and
the guitar Ron Isley crooned over, and God made the grass and the
bugs and the dogs and the trees, and God made all of our bodies to
make waste, and God made even the waste that lives in us, and God
made the way the world spins and the way it will shake us right off if
we don’t act right, and God made the rivers which make it possible
for us to drink, and God made the clouds which hold the rain, and
God made the birds which fly and the wolves that howl. God made
the folds of my brain and the thoughts that burrow there. God made
my belly, my uterus and all the little eggs which might become
children—God made the doubt that rests there, like bubbling gas.
God made the silence I wrap around myself some nights, alone. God
made the music we sing and the music we hate. God made the ears
which help us stay balanced, help us to hear what people say behind
our backs and in front of them. God made sweet potato pie and
aunties and mamas who know how to add just enough nutmeg. God
made my whole body. And God made my grandma and her gold
tooth, and God made my grandma and her curly wig, and God made
my grandma I didn’t know, and God made my grandpa who was a
ghost, and my grandpa who was a terror. God made fear and the way
it slices us up thin and flimsy, God made the way a hand quivers
before it strikes. God made pain. God made the blood which runs and
keeps us running. God made an everlasting red.