It happened in the sand dunes, so I’m told. I don’t remember.

But it’s said I came back claiming I’d converted to a broken-

nosed God I didn’t know the name of, from a museum long ago.

I don’t know why he stuck, like childhood, tiny events the family

turn into stories, told round the table until you’re pretending

they’re your memories, laughter, in your cowboy hat, photos

of the art critics who hovered round, quite forgotten, who asked

if you wanted to draw horses, and the cold dust of the pews,

no divinity there, but too young to read the prayer book. I woke

sober the next morning, bruised knees, sand-filled shoes, but

she had seen him, so I asked her if he had tattoos. He didn’t. Now

my revelation’s secondhand, reported back in whispers, unreliable,

and the question of what next, discipleship perhaps, standing

in the market square alone, handing out self-printed tracts, rain.

I asked her if anyone else got spiked, as I assumed I had, she said

no. I checked my medication leaflet, maybe I’d had an interaction,

but I hadn’t consumed anything unusual, no grapefruit, no Chianti,

no pills you had to take the dealer’s word for, and I asked her: like

a boxer? thinking of the nose, and she said no, not really, thinner,

then her sister called, she left. I stared at the ceiling, wondered

if I should pray, but to whom, for the grace I’d lost, repeated.