Stranger the Story

John Terpstra

I’m God, she says, trying it on for size,
then giggles, can hardly believe herself.
What’s so funny? we call from the hillsides,
our armchairs that hover over her play.
But like the grand old dame behind the curtain
who’s overheard the menfolk gossip she’s pregnant,
she turns her face to us, as if to say,
Who, me? Did I laugh?

From one horizon to the other
the landscape’s a litter of drums and barrels;
the wagon’s tipped over, everything’s pulled
from the shelves, and Barbie, poor doll,
is naked again, and missing both legs.
It’s a cruel world, even for plastic,
but we’ve seen this scene, that torso,
too often to be moved.

Listen child, if you’re God, fix it.
Mend these bodies, straighten out our living room.
And we’ll sing songs to you, we’ll praise you
to our friends. I’d love to tell
total strangers the story,
how good you are, how well it is
you behave....

But shall I then, or ever,
love you more than me?
Come on, Sarah Kate, let’s clean up.

And so I take my firstborn by the hand
and lead her up the mountain, step by step.
Where are we going? she asks, and I say,
We are going for a sleep—and this, for once,

agrees with her. But I never tell
the whole story, or say that every evening
she is laid upon the bed prepared for her,
or that her trust in me might be misplaced;
that I am bigger, but angels stay my hand;
or that instead of her or me the bushes
and the pens are stocked with animals,
because, it seems, our kind must make death.
And I haven’t told her now is the heyday
of gods and their playthings, who chuck
all holy routine, refuse prayer, see only beasts
in her and me: gods of commerce, gods
of self, gods of God, for whom
the only sweetest smell is ours, burning
with zeal, or else another flame.
And I could name names, I could point, here,
there; I could say, “railway cars at midnight,”
los desaparacidos. I could tell her
every day
we inhale
the ashes of the innocents;
their last, expired
breath—
that it’s in the air.

But the story’s too much, even
for me, and I’m bigger.
I lead her only through the prayers

I dare to speak, and hope she sleeps.

Visit John Terpstra as Image Artist of the Month for September 2000

Issue #18 • Winter '97-'98