I don’t need a god of love,
but a god of living;
perfection is
irrelevant to earthly matters.
Give me a god
with wind-chapped skin,
callused palms,
eyes like Californian wildfires
and the desert bush burning.
Let his teeth be fresh, sharp
as pine needles.
Give me a goddess
who retains her wildness,
who is dangerous in the way
that I am dangerous
when I forget
(when I remember)
what I am, I am, I am.