today it seems the missionaries are bound
to send their best-disguised recruit –
the tickle of hair on your top lip better found
at the wheel of a Ford F-150, camo drying on the boot,
but filters the word of G-d to a tinny sound
a frequency between carrie underwood and orchestral flute,
country-classical. you pronounce proselytize like a round
of whisky, on the house, a crowned
glory, a correct citing of john 8:44 draws a winning suit
of cards or a dart on bulls-eye. in your eyes ‘the ground’
and ‘the water’ were mixed up in a second genesis and we drowned
where we should have donned a swimsuit
and floated. these moments bleed like a wound
inside us. for example: you told me that G-d told you (rebound
through a line of chinese whispers, like prophecy was an offshoot
of the national lottery where you could win big) that I was in profound
need of help; that you would save me; astound
me with revelation. did I have love, duty, an acute
belief that if I asked G-d would bring me cut-up fruit or browned
butter cookies while I did my homework?
I cried as faith marched towards the parade ground. ■
Words by Natalie Perman. Art by Alisa Musatova.
