Published in Juste Milieu, Issue No. 8 (Pop Art), 2019
I was a faith hunter, my eyes wrapped in wool.
I would stand, third grade height and smaller mind,
at the edge of your words with a sharp, crooked wisp of a stick,
burned white manzanita branch,
looking to spear what syllables best pleased me.
Somewhere in those childish lies there was a better lie,
a pretty lie,
something dressed up in big adjectives and pretty colors.
fairy tale. folklore. myth.
Those I took with me.
Thinking you’d be by early on those pewter-colored Sunday mornings,
two fistfuls of joy you’d carry with you,
eager to see my smiling face
before it faded into reason.