If God exists
I’ll have dinner at his house.
Red berries instead of light.
He’ll send his angel-chauffeur for me.
Clouds like fat doves
will flutter round the table.
We’ll drink from empty vessels
vintage holy water and free will.
Even if God has stubby fingers
he still sucks them for eternity.
If God’s a polyglot he’ll translate holy verse
for an anthology that’s even holier
than the first word’s drop
from which a river sprang.
Then God and I will ride our bikes
over a cherry tree, over the fields of paradise.
Earthly reeds in urns.
Predators lying fallow.
Then God will get off his bike and say
that it is he
who is God.
He’ll take out his binoculars. He’ll tell me
to look at the world. He’ll explain
how it came into being,
how long he has gone on like this and
how unerringly he has erred with this world,
throwing ideas into the wind like paper planes.
If God is a believer
he’ll pray to himself for life everlasting.
Oxen lift up the sun on their horns.
The table totters on its legs.
I’ll get some medicine from God
right after my death.
— EWA LIPSKA.