god wears a necklace with a thin gold chain
and "julia" written in script, a name clutched
in the hollow of a sunkissed throat.
god wears a soft blue skirt with
a sickly sweet ice cream stain; the stickiness
still stuck between long fingers.
god likes thin rimmed sunglasses. god
sucks on cherry candies and leaves the wrappers
in a too-heavy backpack with a broken strap.
god eats green apples for the crunch.
god eats peaches for the promise of softness,
of sweetness, a kiss of juice to peach fuzz lips.
god can't sing but does it anyway, everywhere,
god sleeps on a soft tummy, nose pressed
to a lavender scented pillowcase.
god sits on front porch steps and dreams
of something beyond the billowed clouds,
nestled in the cotton candy pink of the sky,
pressing mulberries between stained fingers
and licking off the juice.