god at geysir

Not as singular
or eternal
but as embodied,
as in my body.
God as grasping,
as holding. God
as opening, swollen
and saturated. God
as pulse, as bloodcurrent
and throatsong. God
as glacial. God as every
ending, a red moon rising.
God as lover, whole
hand reaching, push-
pulling inside out.
A death I always
prayed for. God
as heat, me a vessel.
Hoofbeat and breath.
At Geysir, in Iceland,
God paints blue
patience. Gathers
strangeness in the mouth.
This whole thing
is about to explode
and God is watching.
At astronomical dark
God is a drunk
and lustful sky—
here God offers
me the future
with open palms.
And if I say God
is two bodies, will God
still enter me?
At nightfall, I watch
a sheep with eyes
down low. He tells
me to live
in the light.

This poem was originally published in Wildroof Journal (Issue 34). I wrote it after visiting Geysir, Iceland in September 2025.

Watching the steaming vents and mineral-stained earth, I experienced the landscape as something both geological and deeply spiritual, a place where time seemed to press against the present. On that trip, I listened to an On Being podcast where Krista Tippett interviews Justin Vernon (Bon Iver), and they talk about the word “God” having a certain kind of gravitas, regardless of your beliefs. After that, I couldn’t stop thinking about the word and what it meant to me.

I thought it would be interesting to show you my first drafts of this poem. This was the first note I typed in my Notes app while on the trip:

Soon after arriving home, I worked on the draft, revising it. I thought about writing it as prose rather than poetic verse, and came up with this, which I ended up posting on social media.

From there, I edited it back into the poem format that eventually got published in Wildroof Journal.