In God’s Hands

I was just telling you,
uh-uh not the sermon, but
the leaflets we’d gathered
and then pored over–that’s
a first encounter.
And my grandma’s baptism.
She got dunked into water.

I had gone to a church
and there was a movie, so
horribly depressing, about
the Book of Revelations,
everyone limping along
as fugitives, those not
marked by the beast.

That must be around puberty.
All the growing up–wore
full skirts, sprayed perfume,
early writing on a typewriter
filed in a cabinet. Hung out
late, drank like a fish,
played masquerade.

Somewhere along the way,
God must have whined, even
disappeared it did seemed.
Improbable a maxim, didn’t
really adhered. But thinking
back He must’ve had a hand
in everything.


Day 19. I can’t wait for the drum roll when the end is near. Oh the discipline! But rather than hemming and hawing, let’s just get on to business shall we? What I like about Robert Brewer’s prompts are their simple open-endednes, so it’s entirely open to interpretation. Memory is a bit like that. It’s open to interpretation so one person’s memory of the same thing is different from another’s. This is called subjectivity. It’s my favorite thing about literature. It calls to question memory itself. Is memory a fiction of the self? The self must be made up of memories for it to remember itself. What do you remember? Oh right, Robert’s prompt is to write a memory poem.


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