Being a girl requires a suspension of       disbelief. 
You take your    disbelief, grip it by its rearing horns, 
and you nail it or screw it or duct tape it, 

sometimes using all of it, all at once, until          your    
hands are pink as raw      meat. You  inspect   the backs   
of your calves     for    rashes.      Look at    you.   

You didn’t   even need   a man to hold the       ladder.  
And  it’s beautiful.      Take    that linen    sheet,    flax fraying
   from age and       sunspots,  to a   contemporary  art  show. 

Win a crimped     ribbon.   You only remember heaven     when 
requesting an exclusion.  When    writing      manifestos     that 
start as prayers and end as death threats,      upload them

to the cloud. Email God. He cups your face between his 
hands.     He has a     gap between     his    front          teeth.
You poke   the tenderer part of    his   gums. 

No one likes a cynic. They’re no fun. Movies have villains 
  and    victims.      Isn’t it refreshing, the lack  of     CGI? 
And aren’t you lucky     to be in the front row, where the 

only thing to fear is Frank Silva’s tornado 
mouth and its   bad breath? You keep   hanging. 
Now you could hang your disbelief up with your 

eyes closed.       With just a bobby    pin or     masking tape. 
Court-ordered disbelief   hanging.       Surgeon-prescribed 
disbelief hanging. It becomes second   nature. So when 

they say: “the man at work     one      desk     over raped a girl” 
you’re actually      surprised,  because your neck,    so used
 to looking up, has grown       a new           muscle. 

You’re still staring       at the stars heaven empties. 
You rattle it, and hear    the stars hit ceramic         sky 
like    quarters   in      God’s slotted   piggy bank.