They disguise God, of course, these odors of earth. But some have noses
For underarm sweat when we’ve gone straight to the door
From hammering nails; because someone knocked,
We invited her in, served her spaghetti.
For baby poo from mama’s milk. They say it smells like buttered pop corn,
And like love that is never wasted.
For the urine of that little boy who misses the toilet most times.
(I’m on my knees with Jesus.)
For the moon-lit blood women cast away,
That rises again to nourish miracles.
For the potato peels beneath dirty dishes
From which could grow a zebra or a mouse with time and God’s intention.
Luther said shit was a product of the fall. Could he
Imagine a world
The muck of re-creation, of work, of birth: