No one wants a god with breasts, some omnipotent mother figure smothering high above, yelling out momisms:
Eat your vegetables and leave the animals alone.
Don’t run with weapons. You’ll shoot your eye out.
Look at you. You have cholera. Go right to bed and I’ll brew you some chicken soup.
If you’re going to use things on this planet, then all I ask is to put them back where you found them.
Don’t touch that country. You don’t know where it’s been.
No. No one wants a god with breasts.
But today, when I picked up the morning paper, I imagined what it would be like when she came home from the store.
I was actually filled with love.
So I snuck down to the local church and left a mother’s day card by the sink in the women’s restroom.
I know at some point, if she exists, she’ll show up to wash the sins out of my socks.