God is a Black woman.
God rises every morning, pulls off her do rag, shakes it all out, and the sun rises.
God strides downstairs on flattened feet with curly toes and makes coffee, and the world inhales in unison.
God goes to work. She works in you and for you and with you and through you. She knows your work; paid work; interior work; she knows better than you do, she course corrects your errors, but gives you credit when you show up and shine.
You never see God, the Black woman. You talk over Her, almost hit Her with your Honda, close elevator doors in Her face, so she takes the stars, I mean stairs, with aching knees.
And She is there, waiting for you, when the elevator doors open. Waiting for you, still She is there, right where you are.
God cooks. She opens bare cupboards and empty iceboxes, She schemes and substitutes and feeds you well with croquettes made from old salmon in your lonely barren shelves and dusty Jiffy mix that She makes whole and nourishing again.
God bathes. God soaks away the sins and cares of a world that uses then forgets Her, She shampoos her mane, her Tree of Life, with branches for us all, and rinses and rinses till the water runs clear.
God Rests. She closes her eyes and sky turns the color of her blue black skin. Her dreams are multitude, legion, one for each of us. She breathes easy as She sees our hearts. She tosses when She sees us turn away. She smiles in her dreams as She gathers us back.
And then She Rises Again.
God is a Black woman.
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