God could kill you and blame it on a bear. Being taught as I was
exclusively in car stocks, I was never awake to the possibility
of heaven cleaning its teeth.
Faith has always looked a little bit like violence, or some familiar
scar on my thumb
from growing popsicle trees and raising species of jellyfish
O god of algebra and muscles and schizophrenia—joy is a door
I am kneeling before.
I have scraped my fingers raw against its bark while begging
to be let in.
If not this door, then some window. If not in this life, then
May the volta come when it is needed. Even the light waits
for its turn.
Joy David (they/them) was born in Ukraine and lives in Cleveland, Ohio, where they work as a geneticist researching diabetes and rare pediatric endocrine disorders. They are the author of the chapbook Hibernation Highway (Madhouse Press, 2020) and organize the Starlight Elsewhere Reading at the Rhizome House. Their work has been published in the Harvard Review, Colorado Review, 68to05, Salt Hill, Muzzle, Passages North, and elsewhere.
Artwork: “Strangers in the Museum (Dancing Cranes)” by Cheuk Yan Cherry Tung
Ink, watercolor, mineral pigments, and gouache on silk