Mrs. God poems – Connie Wanek

These poems can be found in Rival Gardens:  New and Selected Poems


Mrs. God


Someone had to do the dirty work,

Spading the garden, moving mountains,

Keeping the darkness out of the light,

and she took every imperfection personally.


Mr. Big Ideas, sure,

But someone had to run the numbers.

Then talk about babies:  he never imagined

so many.


That was part of his charm, of course,

his frank amazement at consequences.

The pretty songs he gave to finches:

those spoke to his


innocence, his inability to regard

every moment as fresh.  “Let’s give them

free will and see what happens,”

ever the optimist.”



Genesis, Cont.


Other days God seemed severe,

but was always hardest on himself.

Curious, he watched Mrs. God,

the way she distanced herself

from disasters.  Especially the one ones

he himself unintentionally set in motion.


All God asked for was eternal work.

Luckily something was always broken.

A virus began to kill all its hosts,

Or claws needed sharpening, and afterwards

He had to make them retractable.

Weather was a challenge,


finicky, like those old carburetors.

But gravity turned out perfectly:

hummingbirds could fly, but people

didn’t float around, and two legs worked fine.

Mrs. God’s radiant smile, yes he gave that

to the sun, and all the stars, and then to Eve.



Day of Rest


The good Lord had primer on his hands,

but paint could wait till Monday,

Mrs. God assured him, seeing how tired he was.


He said, “You should talk.  You’re still working.”

It’s true.  She was wearing her garden gloves

and pants with muddy knees.


“Well, Eden’s almost done for the season.

Bare ruined choirs in the arbor,

where late we walked.”


“Choirs,” he mused.  “Is that a new word?”

She smiled.  “How do you think

we should spell it?”


From a distance Earth was turning

into a masterpiece.  God pondered a second

sun, so there’d never be a dark side.


“No.” she reflected.  “One noon is plenty,

and see how rich the blues are as light fades.”

“Perhaps a moon then,


just a little one.”  And that

bit of tinkering was all they did

for the rest of the day.





“I should have stepped in,”

God said, “when they began to barter

figs for sharpened stones.”


“Don’t blame yourself.”

Mrs. God took the Lord’s hand.

“People are still basically good.”


They looked down

as a cluster of speculators

began to short the new armistice.


“You gave them manna.

That was brilliant.”  She remembered

the day people realized this heavenly bounty


could not be seized, hoarded,

and monetized.  From a distance

she had watched the most ambitious


struggle beneath insane burdens,

only to find swarming maggots the next

morning, their inventory spoiled.


One by one they seemed to catch on.

But eventually the very same people

invented hedge funds.


“Maybe we can learn something

from them,” Mrs. God suggested,

“and just stop caring.”



First Love


After God created love he felt

himself swooning.  “What is this?”

he cried out to Mrs. God.

“What have I done?

Is it a kind of music?”

“It bears a strong resemblance,”

she said softly, watching the warm sea

begin to rise and fall, as though longing for the moon.

“Take slow deep breaths,” she advised,

“and it will pass.”


But it didn’t.  All day God wandered

in Eden, on the verge of weeping.

The tree of knowledge of good and evil

was in full bloom.  He’d made it

self-pollinating, but now he changed

his mind and decided that to fruit,

a second tree must be planted nearby.

“Close, but not too close,”

Mrs. God, the horticulturalist, advised.

“The bees will find it.”


Another evening, glorious among the clouds.

She was humming, mending something,

when God touched her shoulder,

“Yes,” she said, smiling.  “Yes,

it was a good day.