Slippery Gods, Not Things


Depending on the day, Kant might be your God.
His sharpened blade swathed wide compared to Freud’s,
whose member stuck our xx throats—bed us
in our scripts forever. Other times, you’d pine
for Jesus’ dad; who wouldn’t want a kind and loving pop
(without the shame his quick thick hand imparts)?
You wouldn’t betray your Gemini or couldn’t.
And who you might be any minute was the hook.
You were a Buddhist in Birks,
dangled on the lip of atheism, smoked cigars
with Nietzsche and Camus. You penanced at a convent,
and later dabbled in sangoma. Before you left,
you smirked when you told me you had converted your ex—
your tiny Catholic flashing, control-bits slipped.
Why should a marriage be simple? Or anything, unearned?
“Catch me if you’re fast enough,” your eyes twinkled.
Respectfully taught your girls to stamp
their own paths (I loved that), like blind sages
edging toward the outhouse in darkness,
yet you led their prayers, then kissed them every night.

Choice for you
            was never a crystal, nor a sword, nor a thing;
                        just a spinning that abruptly stopped.