Inheritance

If man inherited the earth that means
the earth was left in god’s will
which means that god is either dead

Or pretending to be. I think about this
while filling my car with gas
or grocery shopping, filling the mundane
with the spiritual

Since they’re not so far apart, weighing
red bell peppers the same way
god weighs hearts, readying their ripe bodies
for the gas stove,

The chopping block, the incinerator in the sink.
God gives us the earth
and I wonder what else he left in his will,

Whom time belongs to, or atoms, or lust,
and what kind of instructions god left with the transaction? Be sure, he says,

To wind up time, or else it stops. Do the same thing with lust.
And the angel he gave lust to,
maybe Gabriel or Michael or some other
white-winged Fabio

Asks god why lust needs to be wound up? Isn’t it sinful?
Doesn’t it wind itself?
God doesn’t respond, because the cashier is asking

If I want to set up a rewards account. And I say no,
as always, filling the newborn silence
with fantasy,

Biting my lower lip with my left incisor
with a mouth wound tight from wanting.

Sean Glatch is a sophomore studying psychology at the University of Central Florida. He is the author of the chapbook Late Night Drives and the literary editor for Tongue Tied Mag. Sean's work has been featured in Rising Phoenix Press, Zig Zag Zine, and L'Éphémère Review. He has an obsession with the surreal, the uncanny, and the vaguely familiar. You can find more of his work at his blog 7-weeks.tumblr.com.