god of the gaps

sara jeanine smith

If God lives in the spaces we don’t understand,

then he gets smaller

as a result of whatever we discover,

but what if discover is a misnomer, a cover

for what we wish we knew better

for we have mapped out the letters

but not the sound, not the feeling

that fills the form,

not the substance that spills the shadow:

for instance, when I open a window

I can’t see the wind that rushes in,

only sense the cold pricking my skin,

and sometimes I am in the same room with you

but can’t see your face,

can’t measure the space

between us, can’t guess

at what might be but never is,

but if I have learned anything

it’s to remember this,

even if nothing comes of it:

the faint marks of deity

in the face of my enemy,

the remnant of piety

persisting in every curse

and the fact

that the things that are farthest

apart swallow the air

that divides them,

and then I know

you are so close

so close.