Amy Lauren

Caol Áit

god squints at the computer monitor
and types in your name and address,
not-fingers clacking their own beat
against the pharmacy “music”
blaring from the overhead speakers;
she half-hums along in low,
ethereal tones.

you’ve been standing
in this line for fifteen minutes;
you watched the two young men
in front of you
hugging one another’s waists
in their absentminded affection
before one finally swiped his credit card
and they walked off with the pills in hand.

now, you count out quarters, but only
as you look up to hand them over
do you notice god’s wings spreading
shadows over the countertop.
you glance up at what should be her face
and see whirling galaxies instead.

as you reach across to grab the plastic bag,
god grabs your arm, a touch that melts
your skin like candlewax. “your lover,”
god whispers, “tells me she is so,
so thankful you got sober.
let her know that my reply is seven
more constellations sent to the ceiling
of stars. i work here all night
should either of you need to talk
to someone.”

A Mississippi poet, Amy Lauren authored Prodigal (Bottlecap Press, 2017) and God With Us (Headmistress Press, 2017). Her writing appears in Sinister Wisdom, Cordite Poetry Review, and elsewhere.