Where she saw God.
                                                      
 Kelsey Ottman 

                                                            
she told me she saw God.
not inside the white glazed
steeple arching towards the sky, but
outside where the night      
wrapped its delicate fingers 
around her waist and the 
pavement glinted sticky and black   
with her face, his, illuminated
by the neon glow of a post office sign
outside, where fireworks clashed
with her rubbery lips, forehead to  
forehead, pressed together like
the thin sheets of paper holding   
meaning in this life but she told me
she found it here, where the
 mold of a mouth met hers
 and there was nothing.
“this is where I saw God"
she told me, where he had said 
(you mean the world to me)
and she laughed.

she told me she saw God.
not inside the white glazed
steeple arching towards the sky, but
outside where her back crushed
against the white washed 
walls of the resistance that was
crumbling, crunched like
a petal floating to the ground.
the ground where she almost 
lost her balance, reeling as his lips 
brushed hers, like a smudged 
painting, never perfect, never 
anything besides brilliant
blurred shades of gray, 
the shades where she told me
"this is where I saw God”
and he had said (you are beautiful) 
and she laughed.