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

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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