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God and the G-Spot

     He didn’t want to believe. He wanted to know.

         -Ann Druyan, Carl Sagan’s wife,

         on why he didn’t believe in God

I want to know too. Belief and disbelief

are a pair of tourists standing on swollen feet

in the Prado—I don’t like it.

I do. —before the Picasso.

Or the tattoo artist with a silver stud

in her full red executive lips,

who, as she inked in the indigo blue, said,

I think the G-spot’s one of those myths

men use to make us feel inferior.

God, the G-spot, falling in love. The earth round

and spinning, the galaxies speeding

in the glib flow of the Hubble expansion.

I’m an East Coast Jew. We all have our opinions.

But it was in the cabin at La Selva Beach

where I gave her the thirty tiny red glass hearts

I’d taken back from my husband when I left.

He’d never believed in them. She, though, scooped

them up like water, let them drip through her fingers

like someone who has so much she can afford to waste.

That’s the day she reached inside me

for something I didn’t think I had.

And like pulling a fat shining trout from the river

she pulled the river out of me. That’s

the way I want to know God.

from Mules of LoveFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2002
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

Published in Ellen Bass Poems

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