poem in which I cannot rely on my hands

Noralee Zwick, United States

I used to believe in God. This was back when I wanted to be a carpenter, when the only thing I knew

grown-ups could do was pave roads and build houses, weld metal into fences or the occasional

prayerbook. When I learned they tore them down too, I believed in God a little more. The idea was that if

we, the creations, could destroy someone’s being, then there had to be something building them back up

again. Obviously the two could not go hand in hand—no, God had to be his own thing, clad in a yellow

hat, wielding a hammer. This was the time, too, when I believed so often I bowed my head at everything. I

tell Grace so, now that we are twelve and walking home from school by ourselves. We pass by the

unfinished houses and play the same game: if you lived in this one, how many kids would you have? How

many pets? Could you love it here? One of these days I tell her that maybe God is wreathed somewhere

on the ivy-covered house, because He is supposed to be in plants, just not the fake shit that interior

designers import in for the front. Maybe in the people, too. Later I figured out that children don’t

commonly think this. I hear from them that God is dead. This cannot be true because the house down the

street is all finished now, even though last time we passed it there was only foundation and cement. I think

some version of me was made as a sanctuary. All fresh wood, open-air.

Noralee Zwick is a student and poet based in the Bay Area, California. A California Arts Scholar and Iowa Young Writers Studio alum, their work appears or is forthcoming in Prairie Home Magazine, Fleeting Daze Magazine, and Dishsoap Quarterly, among others. They can be found teaching and researching art, admiring old jewelry, and making an unholy amount of Spotify playlists.