Glass 2

I’ve only ever been at home in blizzard, the electric pink
dollar store glitter eyeshadow slant of it.
Make no mistake God is black and trans.
I’ve seen her pink slippers slide in drifts,
her matching boa off the shoulders
of evergreen in winter. She hugs wolves.
Protects us from hate. From guns in helicopters. From lack of poetry.
Those who don’t live still give their dead opinions
why wolves shouldn’t exist. But Source sings with us the uncrackable,
wide-open inside. My one spin left, one spin right past twos,
my one dervish-self-with-broken glasses combination
to this world since I broke into it through a burning circle she lit
to show me entry to this plane in which there are mysteries
prayers come from not to Source. I’m a stenographer in her court.
Scribing the statements of witness trees.
The public defender wind pleads.
Stops.
Pleads again.