God is a storm. We live in the eye.
by Renea McKenzie
The roof over your head you did not
build. Extend an awning that another
might remove his coat-and-hat selves
in the warmth of your womb-like mouth,
the greenhouse of your window-walled eyes.
When he removes his shoes to sleep, place
them like hot coals on your heartstrings;
let the soles’ tread tattoo you with the pain
of their path. When he wakes, wash his feet.
They will sweep clean the earth-floor
of your God-scarred soul.
Renea McKenzie, M.A., is a Texas native whose work often reflects the intersection of faith and protest and, somewhat similarly, the way north-Texas wildlife stubbornly adapts to the sprawling city.