what if the world is just the dream of a young girl, sleeping under a pink velvet canopy bed?

If you are offended by notions of God far outside the Bible and Orthodoxy, you should probably skip this post. If you decide to read, please understand that this is extended metaphor. Poetry/Fiction.

The Invisible Cat and The Bride of Heaven	                               

                                                               
When my mother pushes me into the world, God catches me, suctions the water from my nose, blows gentle breaths into my mouth. 
                                             He says, my lily, my sunrise, my perfect rose. 

Standing at my crib he sings to me, grasps my chest and wriggles me gently, 
spins the great mobile of space– blue-gold and black. I float all night on a silver lake,
in the morning he dresses me in cotton and lace.

With one foot forever rocking my cradle, God lifts up his hands and flips open the hinge of this house, sets a golden stair inside my room, teaches me up and down and holding on. 
                                            He says, you are the golden swan, yours is the gilded crown. 

God rides the school bus with me. We keep to ourselves, no one can see. In the girl’s bathroom I see him on the ceiling, upside down, a magic cat. I sit at my desk, he purrs in my lap. After school, we eat the sandwiches my mother leaves out.

He rides a scooter into the kitchen, bumping into the cabinets over and over until my mother puts a stop to that. I toss him the rinds and the scraps, he helps me take the garbage out; he holds my hands and spins me round and round. 
                                                            
                                                        You are the echo. You are the sound.

When my mother is finished with the wash, we run in and out through the watery-chlorine smells and sun. We can’t stop laughing. The sky hangs over us like a golden bowl. We are dancers, we are acrobats; flipping and soaring, swelling with air, we float up into the atmosphere.

God walks sock-footed through the hallways of this house, my mother’s stringent dust-free expanse. I stay out of doors–I am the dirt, the dust; I am head-to-toe the muddy floor of the woods. He is a creek, a river. Water flows through his hands and over my head.
                                                          You are washed. You are clean. You are good.

Still this house is angry and hot, full of snapping teeth and yellow hair. She looks at me with a see-through stare, raises her hand to my face, her palm leaves a red scar.

God comes and whisks me away into the cool caves of space. We stand behind a waterfall, a spray of mist rainbowing the air. We are spinning, spinning under the velvet ceiling. He twirls inside me. We move through the stars, one body of light.

               I am girl, I am growing. I am God.

We climb up to the rim of heaven. We slide down its slippery sides into the places where it is covered in fancy boxes, birthday presents, cakes so chocolate-white and tall they stretch up forever. He lifts me up, his beard scratches my face.

He gives me his class ring, I wear it on my middle finger. It’s a blue sparkle against my bedroom window. I wait for the sound of pebbles against glass. I know he will come to me, climb the trellis of roses into my room. He will lie down beside me, I will snuggle into his muscly arms. 

              I am the chosen, I am the righteous.

When I wake up, 
I gather his loose hairs from the pillow. 
These are for the baby’s nest. 
He chose me in my Christening dress. 

I am the apple he plucked from the first tree. 
He buried me in my mother. 
He waited for me to grow up, 
to braid my hair with flowers, 
to lower the veil across my face, 
to call me forth at the appointed hour.
 
He is standing now at the altar. 
I am walking to him, 
through the fullness of time and space
I am floating across forever
to be with him.

I am the woman. 
I am the bride. 
I am the mother of heaven.