Broken (interaction)

By | 15 February 2023

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.

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