The Book of Joan

god is unborn
for god is a place
a state of spirit
she’s not the statues
but the peaceful breeze
the warmth of a sunbeam
the yawn of a baby
a star that rises on the horizon
the kiss of a woman
the hands of a man
god doesn’t feed of your faith
neither collect your sins
she’s the rumble of a thunder
that inspires fear
and before that
the thunderbolt
that lightens the night
she’s the people you forgot
the ones you want to remember
a sorrow more lethal than death
a joy that’s bigger than life
it’s all the details
the small details
that create her
and when you miss them
when you don’t care about them
or notice what surrounds you
you miss the chance
to give birth to god.

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