Noah Siela

Someone threw white gravy

on my car during the night.

Gravy flinger, would your god get my god?

My god is so big and so busy

you can hide a unicycle in the corner of his eye

and every time I remind him through prayer

that I want my unicycle back

his thicker subflesh

cringes at the suggestion

and seismic activity is reported

down in the Galapagos

while some marketing idiot

gets to name another epic blizzard

that white people will use as a reason

to cross-country ski through

no-way neighborhoods in Baltimore

buried so inactive and deep the whole block hears

the wish-wishing of locomoting strangers.

So, gravy flinger, would your god

and my god get on just fine

considering their perspectives

is all they have but maybe,

like scientist lovers studying,

they’ll press us between lenses,

the complete range of their agreeing nods

too complex for the full-length mirrors of humans.