A poet's religion
Valerie Braylovskiy

Every time I start a poem, I have an anxiety attack. Because what if God decides he is tired of funding my poetic pilgrimage and cuts me off. 
“You can never write again” 
I cry, my fingers paralyzed on a raw Californian morning, snow bleeds from my chalky lips. 

Stained slush seeps 
onto the blank page. 

I am not religious, but I am afraid of God. My predetermined fantasy of writing depends on 
superfluous superstitions: facing south I write, facing north I edit, two
                                                gulps of earl grey after one stanza, maybe 
                                                a latte if I ever finish. 
One day when I’m old enough to forget 
my youth– 
jumping off cliffs and screaming 
Dreams by Fleetwood Mac 
to the rhythm of heartbreak and contemplating 
what could be because I had nothing but stale receipts 
and frozen liquor, 
all I will be is a writer who sleeps with 
two cats 
(I hate cats.) 
in place of dead lovers. 
​
And I will sit down to write about the 
burnt-toast smelling ooze 
that leaks into our water pipes, 
or the sea levels that swallow our grandchildren, 
but I’ll die 
instead.