Dear John

I tell Ginger I am seeking retribution for all wrong narratives about us. Leisurely,
a drip-state. This is conviction. This is adult time, this is not Montessori.
The invitation is in the mail: you are invited, and you are invited, and you are invited.
Make no mistake, there is an anti-guest list, and maybe you are on it.
Not you, of course, but the wrongdoing. Denial at the door, at the pew,
at the threshold, in the choir, someone on the street singing an old hymn
low and slow, someone mumbling an incantation on a train, someone
on their knees giving eye contact, brush the hair off their cheek.
This morning I held a crystal glass up to the light and rainbows refracted
throughout the room, the first color in my life in days. Where is God
right now? I plead for the interruption, the intercession, on my knees
looking up. Or with narrowed eyes into middle distance, so many tricks.
Either way, I lie in wait, for as long as it takes, everyone should stay alert.