Frothing Pink Poodle Droppings

Lately, I notice my swearing’s become
more frequent and creative: Hell’s Kotex
or Flaming mouse’s asshole or
Mary freakin’ mother of god’s petunias.
Am I racking up doom-points, canceling
my date with the holy hereafter, as my cousin,
who prays for my soul, would insist?
The god I believe in, on the days I believe,
loves that I talk to deer, plant fennel
for summer’s caterpillars, send postcards
of dinosaurs and sharks to my sister’s grandson,
who’s learned about mail, adores it.

She—I call god she—sees my gratitude
for slim white orchids sprouting in my woods,
for snapping turtles and baby copperheads
and eagles. For persimmons squished
in the leaves when they fall so ripe from the tree
they split open, but I rub the dust off,
eat them anyway. For holy, and I mean holy,
sunsets where I stand outside no matter
how cold, giving thanks for the day,
the sacred day.

She’s grateful that I pick up acorns
from the road so they won’t get run over,
collect the caps and bring them back
to scatter on my porch railings.
That’s pure god territory, she said so,
my delight makes her swoon.
She cares not one whit for how I talk
unless I say something hateful,
something mean, and mean it.
Your curses make me giggle,
she says, I’m listening. Go wild!