the shape of god in my mouth

by Bernadette Martonik

I yell God 

at the gold-plated icons on the living room wall

where Mary and Jesus have long thin faces and narrow noses

like aliens.

Below them is a small wooden table

that is actually an old sewing machine table

covered in a red velvet-clothed book

of the gospels,

a tabernacle,

and two candles in red glass

which we kneel around each evening

and pray to Our Father.

I don’t really yell God

because in my mind, when I yell God like that

I am squeezing my eyes closed and clenching my

fists and glass is breaking all around me

and sparks are flying.

Do not take the name of the Lord in vain, my father said.

He didn’t know how my mouth longed to form those sounds, 

how I had no control when they pushed up the back of my throat

and caught-

the guh, guh, guh, a tic on the roof of my mouth

or a release latch

letting itself ping off and open up into the all-encompassing

ahhhhhhh sound

before quietly landing on the tip of my tongue

duh

To say it backward was as innocent as Dog.

A word that never forced itself to spit up from my belly and swallowed back down.

I have to stand with my nose against the door

and squirm as I study the places where brown shows

through white chipped paint,

trying to imagine kneeling down

in front of the long-faced Jesus and

long-faced Mary,

looking at their alien long fingers,

hers wrapped around him,

his pointed at the sky,

their stern, sad eyes,

taking a deep breath

before whispering, God.

Bernadette Martonik lives in Seattle, Washington. Her work can be found in Oddball Magazine, Cathexis Northwest Press, Pithead Chapel, The Manifest-Station, The Extraordinary Project, Typishly, Vox Lux Journal, and Stone Pacific Zine. She can be found on Twitter and Instagram @BernadetteMartonik