I played God when I was little
I turned crab apples into cherries
and sand into pie crust
I drowned ants with a hose
and built them tiny castles
I pulled my first bible from a sticky hotel room drawer
Read one column and remembered nothing
At Thanksgiving I bowed my head but did not close my eyes
I felt my palms sweat in my grandmother’s hands because I was sinning
I refused to say “amen”
Once, I prayed when a boy didn’t like me back
I told God I would never ask for anything else
I used to apologize to the sky
I wished on birthday candles
I knocked on wood
I held my breath as I passed graveyards
so I never breathed in ghouls
I clung to lucky things: stones, charms, keys, combs
I’m terrified of death.
I jumped over every crack in the sidewalk
I broke a mirror seven times
I worshiped him
I threw salt over my shoulder
I screamed Oh, God
I spit
I ate six pieces of communion bread
and sat in empty chapels waiting for revelation that never came.
whitfo1@stolaf.edu
