god is the warm smell of a vcr
—————————–in a room that feels safe.
violence sits like a dog at the door,
—————————–but god is the door we closed when playing playstation,
—————————–the beanbag chair we shared.
the door is now open,
—————————–and there a man stands,
looking like jesus torn from his cross,
—————————–staining the walkway with rich umber drops.
god is not the crowbar that opened
—————————–the man’s face or the opening in his forehead.
god is the open door
—————————–and the worn leather
of a basketball touched by many hands,
—————————–motionless in the grass by the crowbar.
god is not the police who open
—————————–the gate and take the man.
the police have hands
—————————–like crowbars.
you lived closer to my house than the school,
—————————–shuffling between
brick buildings by the dairy queen, so close
—————————–we could smell fudge on the frost when it snowed.
immigrant was mostly a mouthful
—————————–of syllables and funny food to the kids
who came pre-made to school with pizza pops, pb+js,
—————————–fruit by the future size of their feet.
my parents were immigrants too and poor,
—————————–but a colour of poor that isn’t accused of stealing condoms, followed around stores,
—————————–eyed by farmers with itchy hands.
the teacher told us not to use i’s in our essays.
—————————–you stood in defiance at the front of class,
imagined your fist was a microphone,
—————————–sung the song from Oliver & Company—
why should I w-orry?
—————————–why should I ca-a-are?
those, the only words you remembered.
—————————–i loved the care in how you forgot.
you pantsed me in the checkered lounge
—————————–after a game we probably lost.
the ice cream cakes watched from a freezer
—————————–that was warmer than the walk home.
your father wore collared shirts so casually
—————————–the collar became a crown.
he kept smoky liquid in a pop bottle in the fridge.
—————————–we snuck sips and talked about skateboards.
your mother was a king
—————————–who prayed without words.
we drank slurpees on a hundred salty sidewalks,
—————————–shot hoops under watery sun and talked
about guns, left little bits of our elbows and knees
—————————–on asphalt all over the city.
our pockets were alive
—————————–with five cent candies, our shoelaces snapped,
our feet smelled the age of our shoes.
—————————–we were primarily the things
we wore—ribs, hips and bony ankles clutched by And1 & Jordan
—————————–when we had money, desire when we didn’t.
when was a basketball not bouncing?
—————————–we shared that beanbag chair through winters where snow was the mind of god
—————————–and summers of hot sidewalk and dandelion seed.
7/11 hotdogs were falling from the sky
—————————–and 9/11 was set to clang off the rim of our being.
but our bodies. we were rising
—————————–on the warm wind of god’s prairie breath,
torsos vertical as telephone poles, clover on our tongues.
—————————–now you are in texas.
god as a metaphor vanished
—————————–when you did.
you and i do not often speak,
—————————–but do we ever tire of remembering
those who loved us well? the snow is gone.
—————————–grey is the distance between alberta and texas.
i have not told you yet, but something is happening
—————————–to my head.
the white spots on the MRI
—————————–are shaped like seagulls.
on easter morning, i drove to a court by the ocean.
—————————–the concrete was cold as a tomb,
my fingers stiff as crowbars.
—————————–the concrete ping of the basketball
was the cadence of prayer,
—————————–and my legs were doing funny things.
i cried and wished for a new body,
—————————–yes, but mostly for your return.
the slantwise sun moved slowly
—————————–over the backboard on an otherwise empty court.

 

 

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