God Was Not

By Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo

All that you touch, you change. All that you change, changes you. The only lasting truth is change. God is change.
—Octavia Butler, “Parable of the Sower”

in your kiss or fingertips,
or how you liked to say goodbye,
arms squeezing through my middle
to lift my body from the ground

till bones cracked up my back.
Like a child’s xylophone,
you played me into laughter,
but not in the good way giggles

crammed us happy in the Jack
drive-through for no reason at all.
Easy as air that one morning
we sat across from each other

at a diner. A waitress refilled
our coffee mugs and served us
a Mexican dicho like toast,
not knowing you had a hunger.

“My mom used to say that.”
“That’s the universe,” I replied.
Your green eyes turned tender.
God was in the moments we didn’t

touch, or even think to touch.
But the last time, you touched for me
out of a nightmare. I woke
at dawn to your hand pleading

with my breast—Awake!—Alive!—Stay!
I caressed your beard, but fear
persisted, so maybe god was not
there for you. Or maybe god was.

Notes:

This poem is part of the portfolio “The Chorus These Poets Create: Twenty Years of Letras Latinas.” You can read the rest of the portfolio in the December 2024 issue.

Source: Poetry (December 2024)