I sit upon the floor inside
my childhood bedroom, wondering why
it is that God cannot be seen.
‘God is in everything,’ I’m told,
but I can see this isn’t true.
He isn’t in my radio.
He isn’t in my Action Man.
He isn’t in the church on Sunday.
Although I look, I cannot see
him in my mother’s shouting face.
I manufacture God from things
left lying on my bedroom floor:
some wooden blocks; a dried-out paintbrush;
the engine from my brother’s train-set;
and a wig from the dressing-up box.
God balances next to the bookshelf.
‘Hello there, God’ I say, but God
does not reply; he doesn’t have
a mouth. ‘Here, borrow mine,’ I say.
I wear God’s wig and start to talk.
I talk like God, or how I think
that God would talk. I open-shut
my mouth, then open-shut my mouth
again as silence fills the room.
I stand there, mute, more fish than God.
‘For God is very like a fish,’
I say, in pompous, priestly tones.
I open-shut my fish-God mouth
for one last time, de-wig myself,
and put God back inside his boxes.