by Ian Bush
Only God owns the moon.
All that cheese just out of reach,
and glowing because God likes for people to see His masterpieces.
Every blinking star’s
a jaw breaker,
round and just as bright as after an atomic bomb.
he’d like to stretch his arm out
passed the moon.
he’d let his bones snap to make room for all the empty space and clouds that exist between.
he wants to scoop up ever last jaw breaker,
let them blink burn holes in his palms.
he wants to shove them in his mouth, suck them down to the center,
so they’ll turn red giant and consume his hunger.
Or maybe God will split the sky
and rain manna on the asphalt.
he would gladly hit blacktop
on palms and knees with praise Jesus on his tongue,
then pile in handfuls,
seasoned with little bits of glass and gravel.
A question for God: If we share footprints in the sand, do we share shadows while i wait for You?