Facing God

What do I have to say for myself?
I have neither words, nor the common
sense he gave me. I hold out
my hand and he takes
 
my palm, scowling at his fractured
script, the hand of a careless doctor.
He releases me, grunts.
Do I have any feedback for him?

my palm is blank
like fields after snowfall
like lies told to children
after death

I tell him well, patriarchy sucked,
so fuck you for that. And evil, did that
have to be so damned banal?

But music, I tell him, music,
that was good. And colors, too.
I liked colors.