I’ll never admit that I am looking for God.
But I admit to watching you
while you rockingchair in prayer
to the vocalist and the sax monosyllabist
making their orgasmic babble.
I’d build an ark to save you for an hour
if I believed in God
more than did him on the side.
My lover is obscure, my life, within limits.
I’d like to think you’re not a place I go to
when I press on my eyelids.
The questions come, ceaseless and easy as waves,
The head buoys in daven.
We repeat the bible of our meeting, our trials, our being chosen
nodding like Krishnas, feeling blindly our beads.
Repetition alone is holy holy.
Repetition is Holy holy holy—then
There is the body: taut here, slack there.
We must, after all, find out whether we can keep each other.
We search the winding snails of each other’s palms,
the anarchical tempest of human hair
for the higher design of things.
If the world is a collection of God’s thoughts
Your belly must somehow be shaped
with the perfect sense of the aquatic food chain.
If there is an architect, he has tattered sleeves.
This poem originally appeared in the trapdoor to the rabbit hole, Volume 2 of The Ampersand Review.
Ashley Anne Gamell is a graduate of Middlebury College, where she edited a literary magazine and was awarded a scholarship to attend the Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference during her college years. She now lives in Brooklyn with one composer and two cats and works as an educator at a nearby children’s garden. This was her first publication