The Poet X

by Elizabeth Acevedo

It’s not any one thing that makes me wonder about the capital G.O.D. About a holy trinity that don’t include the mother.

I look at her scarred knuckles. I know exactly how she was taught faith.

God, if you’re a thing with ears: please, please.

My anger wants to become a creature with teeth and nails but I keep it collared because this is my mother. And I am sorry.