What do I say?
Do I tell the room that I’m afraid of matches,
or that I get uncomfortable around big dogs
that like to jump on me, or that my favorite cocktail
switches between a Coke and Rum or a Margarita
or a Long Island Iced Tea depending on the night?
Do I tell them that I’ve made out in a baseball dugout
or that I’ve had four teeth pulled
or that my biggest fear in life is that I’ll amount to nothing,
or worse, that I’ll amount to the wrong thing?
Do I tell them I watched every season of Glee,
even when everyone hated it? That I can’t whistle?
That I don’t care?
That I sometimes talk to myself when I’m alone?
That I stand in the mirror, pinching my stomach rolls in disgust?
Do I tell them that I’m not sure about God anymore
because if He exists, then He’s just one more person I’ve disappointed?
Do I tell them I once saw a little girl
get run over by a produce truck in Chile?
Watermelons fell out of the back
when the driver hit the brakes,
breaking into pieces—smashed
red pulp like the little girl’s head.
The neighbors sprayed the streets down
with their garden hoses and the water flowed
like pink lemonade around my shoes.
Do I tell them how I wanted to cry?
How I wanted to go to her
and with the power of the Spirit
raise her from the dead?
I say I’m from Colorado and sit down.