My creator:
You made me in your image,
carved me out of unconsciousness,
picked me out of a void
of nothingness – a long,
blissful sleep –
and brought me (screaming out,
to you) into this life.
You were the first thing
I prayed to
– the only God I knew,
the closest thing to
divinity, before I understood
divinity –
and even before religion taught
me what prayer was.
My creator,
my very first word was a prayer.
My first word was an act of
love.
My first word was an acknowledgement
of your holiness:
Mama,
my creator,
the goddess who gave me
life –
you made me in your image,
and his image,
a descendant of
mortal gods.
The only way I know how to
pray is still by
facing you.
Solecisms 