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The Heir of All Knowing Is Forgetting


I once dreamt that God

was a girl in a flour sack dress

rolling clay between Her tiny

fingers. She started easy making

snakes, fish, moonbeams,

the Ziggurat of Ur; graduated

quickly to mule deer, beargrass,

the Basílica de la Sagrada

Família; and wept at the beauty

of Her loveliest creations:

quasars, Yosemite, democracy,

Paul Newman. Five trillion years

later, lying in Her great hammock,

thinking of all the old colors

and voices, She forgot

the word “molasses.” It scratched

like wool at the tip of Her

enormous, old tongue. “Mollusk,

mollycoddle, moldering, molest?!”

It chafed at Her all afternoon

so that She could not enjoy

the way the eucalyptus trees

knuckled the darkening heavens

or the way the fog rolled in from

the bay, slow as…as…as…

She could not say.


Wyeth Thomas is a PhD candidate in English and Creative Writing at the University of Utah. His most recent work appears in Western Humanities Review, The Gettysburg Review, and Best New Poets 2022. He currently lives in Salt Lake City.


Basilica_de_la_Sagrada_Familia  60%                                                                  Basilica de la Sagrada Familia, Barcelona 



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