how do you bury god?

I don’t know
how old I was when
Toni Morrison found me. I know
only that she found
me thirsty for me between
the pages of each book
I devoured.

I was starving for
stories that described this
brown skin and these
big ol’ eyes. I wanted to
hear my laughter
rise up from pages and
relive the loud chaotic joyful
life in my sorrow.

She gave that to me.

I did not know Pecola
but Pecola knew me. She knew
me as surely as Nel knew Sula.
She wrote me. She wrote
my life. The whole
world saw me then.

In my black
girl living. It saw me and I
saw me laughing
and dancing and lying
and crying and being a whole
black girl me.

Toni Morrison,
she wrote my life. She
put words to my poverty
and my triumph. She showed
me that my love is indeed
bottomless and dark and
expansive. And I weep.

She created me. You see.
She created me. Writing me on paper
between cardboard covers. She made
me real. And since that day…that
day she found me and showed
me to myself…since that day

I have worshiped her.

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