Jack Garcia
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?
Heal her?
Anything?
No.
I say I’m
from Colorado and sit down.
1 comment:
This is both sad and beautiful. I've missed reading your writing.
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