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For the first allowed god
we traced stone footprints
across the cathedral ceiling.

Or was this the last god—
grown so tired of our own faces
our god had not one?

So take this velvet Jesus
in the motel’s fading hall:
most novel savior, so like
with his drooping moustache
the landlord’s runaway son.

Lightsey Darst

Lightsey Darst lives in Minneapolis, where she writes poetry and dance, art, and book criticism. Her recent work is published or forthcoming in The Antioch Review, The Literary Review, Quarterly West, and Crab Creek.