Sunday Morning

There was the god
that was in the peaches
in the cobbler, and the god
in the rosebuds in the glasses
on the table where the chicken,
fried, swam in the syrup
from the waffles, and the god
in the sweet tea, and the god
of my daughters laughing,
and the god of all the women,
lined up on the block,
opening their blouses for me,
saying, you’ll be okay, honey,
and the god in the scars,
and the god in what got cut out,
or what would soon get cut out,
and the god of the sun
on my face, while the breeze,
was god, yes, my god, the breeze.