You ask me, what gender is God?
I don't know. I've never undressed God.

undressing God:
First the clouds, taken from the morning;
Then, taking glass and leaving its serene transparency
Taking black and leaving space
a hollow between open arms
Taking bones and leaving all dignity
Taking skin and leaving only a river,
a sacred turbulence pouring from life to life
Taking machines and leaving
panting struggling flowers elbowing up
like all of New York City were only rocks
Taking the dark parts of Mengele's eyes
leaving an old white skeleton on the beach
skeleton with wind looking in and drifting through
Taking all that hides behind the cloak of memory
and bringing it, vulnerable as food,
crumbling, and powerful as dirt
to the place where it can flower
receiving beauty from its old decay
Taking the wind and leaving something trembling
on the long-shadowed hills and giving a sad
and musical shout
Raising a new life from the graveyard of hopes
that came up before
a glassy old cruelty and died
Taking each single darkness and letting its hot anguish bleed
out to the cold and serene night
The world would be, will be washed in time
and new as after rain.
Dreaming hard with your back against the bark of a tree
you can see the shimmering, undressing God.

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God is always dressed, only humans are naked.