Spirit made flesh
                         made wrong. 
Heaven’s wayward seed 
          that spent too long in the belly.

          The Father didn’t want him
                                                 but Mama held on.

He framed a blank piece of paper
                           and called it Dad.

When he needed a mirror, 
                                     he cut a potato in half.

             He stood bent as a toenail
and scuttled like a crab.

He had seven toes
            and called them disciples.

                                     He learned to multiply with tadpoles
             and crackers.

                         He once fell in love with a waterfall.
                         He only cried in the rain after that.

He turned Pepsi into gin
             in the tub. He drank fire
and pissed smoke.

             He had a pet tree named Rigor Mortis
                         and swore when he spoke in tongues.

He heard he had a brother
            who also hung around trees.
                                                He left home to find him
            and walked the wilderness
                                                             like it was water. 

Cover Art by Martins Deep

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Seth Amos

Seth Amos is cofounder and former poetry editor of Rivet: The Journal of Writing That Risks. His work has been published in or is forthcoming from Tin House, Cagibi, The Fourth River, The Canopy Review, and elsewhere.

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