How to: Remember

for gambie

i wake up in a pew with a bible leather-bound

and sticky between my thighs,

the satin tassel bookmark i braided out of

boredom coming undone…

in my dream God was the sun,

fighting to pass through the stained glass around us

He was the light,

contorted by the reds, blues, and yellows,

waxy on the pane

we are in a hurry, you say,

people talk too much and too fast,

(i’m drowsy, i’m hungry, i’m slowing at the

sound of the shuffling congregation)

and i set my sketchers on fire behind you

just to keep up

the cloth seats in your suv

hold golden stains

from who knows how many accidents

so i tell you tales of where they’re from.

in this particular fantasy, our destination is infinite –

the car’s rubber tires are

eating the mirage of us,

shimmering on the hot blacktop.

“Little lady,” you say,

“Name the trees.”

dogwoods with their clustered white flowers

becoming cotton clouds

against a stark blue sky

or crape myrtles

(your favorite)

scattering magenta kisses

along the roads

in loving verse

(my favorite)

the magnolia

outside of st. paul’s united methodist church

where we escape every sunday

from the people who talk too much and too fast

while the magnolia’s

ivory petals bloom through my chest

and into the cavity of my heart

i don’t go to church anymore

but i’d like to believe there’s a god

and that maybe he speaks to me

when the sky breaks open in the morning,

and the dewy, molten sunrise

calls me from my dreams

•

Edited by: Rachel Goulston