God is a Ritual

Dear God

When I first knocked
on your door
I was child.
My mother's hand
holding my palm
I, tottering behind.

The second time I
remember visiting you
was when I
wasn't allowed to
cross your threshold.
I was bleeding.

The third time Your
men came to
me. I had
fallen in love
with the wrong
boy, they said.

Dear God

Is that blood on your hands I see?
No, wait. That's ritual flowers they put
around your neck
at your feet
in the basket
of your devotees.

Dear God

Don't you see?
The things they do
because You,
have to be?

Dear God

I am tired,
I rest my case.
I forgot how powerful
You are, in my haste.