I Never Learned How to Use a Bandsaw

Catherine Pikula

The night before I was supposed to
show up to the wood shop, I saw God
in the grainy white noise of a TV screen.
I mean I felt Him. I was lying down
on warped wood. I was stepped on.
A tea bag filled with cold water.
His head was a yellow triangle
pulling at my polka dot skirt.
My almost lover said I laughed,
but the rest of the house rushed
to the window in search of a falcon.
I wanted to phone my brother and ask
if I was still alive, but I fell asleep
in my almost lover’s bed feeling
like a bloody nose. In the wood shop
I tripped over a broom; I couldn’t
focus. My almost lover said
I needed psychological services.