The Heavenly Mother at Taco Bell

O, Maddie! identified by a purple/white

tag, your hair piled into a bun above

your purple/white visor, you don’t know

anything about me—we haven’t met before

and this isn’t a Taco Bell I'm apt

to visit again—so you’ll never know

that I’ve been thinking about the feminine

divine: Ashtoreth, the erased wife

of our Abrahamic god (I can say “our,”

right?—your Alabama makeup screams

Evangelical! to my West Coast mind,

and I, myself, am a Saint), and Her symbol—

the tree, the grove— If you look

(O, Maddie!) not into my window but

over my car, you’ll see the three tulip

trees I saw reflected in your drivethru window

before you slid it open and emerged,

your slight teenage bosom and weary Southern

accent looming over me, accepting

my oblations (on credit) and handing

me much needed calories in two bean

burritos and a crunchy taco—

a yonic triangle—with almighty

proffer of sauce in whatever

manifestation I can handle: mild, hot,

or fire from heaven above,

from Wisdom Herself, our Mother—

o, Maddie.