you saw god
in a sunset upstate
said god is good
i cringed because
to me, that sounds
like the first notes
of a pipe organ
in my chest
and the sitting
and standing
the sliding
and squeaking
of hymns and
eucharists and
my dad bad-
mouthing the reverend
in his sandpaper whisper
to me, god was
just another grown up
to keep calm
before she
put my last
baby tooth
beneath the pillow
my mom put us
at a pew in the back
of that church
in Virginia
she worried
the tooth fairy
would come
for my molars,
my innocence,
my mortal soul
one of those
sundays i stood
at the altar
next to my
crush
we were eight
a too-late
two-for-one
baptism special
i hummed
here comes the bride
our moms smiled
friends from carpool
they’d married godless
husbands wanted to split
the difference
with their babies
my mom says:
keep your options open
when it comes to men
the sunlight caught
the tops of my crush’s ears
lit them up from the back
like stained glass
like polished cherries
i felt nothing for god
but everything
for a boy
glowing golden
holy water crossed
smooth foreheads
WASPs don’t do
submersion
the indecent
silhouette of wet bodies
that summer
my crush and i
swam in the pool
batted at dragonflies
dancing on water
kept our hands
to ourselves
floating gentle
as jellyfish defanged
the pool’s bottom
was cul-de-sac black
black like bedtime
no night light
black like the gap
my front tooth
left behind
i drifted deeper
than i meant to
went to put my foot
down and i went down like a spool of thread unwound
i gulped a chlorine
sacrament to the sound
of my mother’s scream
then arms around me
and those arms
were her arms
and my body
was her body
i don’t know how
she got to me so fast
by which i mean
omnipresence
i coughed up
the bread of heaven
by which i mean
a hot dog bun
on the hot concrete
poolside and mortified
by almost drowning
with an audience
and my mom
rocked my wet
body always
unashamed
for the both of us
so you’re right
god is good
she wears soaked
khaki shorts
her skin smells
like summer
belly buoyant
with fresca
i saw god in my mother
stopped going to church
in september
and still
we stay
afloat
Kate Cavanaugh is a writer living in Brooklyn. This is her first published poem.
Breathtaking. Wonderful onrush of imagery. Story rings of truth. I love it.