Lost/Belief

Lost

It is hellish this morning. I lost a piece of writing. And it was good—I imagine it was good. Good as finding one plump blueberry in a clear container of shriveled berries.

I retrieve a scrap of paper lodged in dandelions. What is found is not the writing I lost. What is found is an oil-stained receipt marking the purchase of two small chalices. $49.22.

The chalice is a goblet, the cup of religion, unlike the coffee cup which is used with the breath of morning. I find the coffee cup worth more to me than the chalice. Coffee is necessary—intense, deep. The smell brings me peace.

The writing I lost stays lost. I cannot recreate it. My memory is bad, like a zebra forgetting it has stripes and tries on a jacket of polka dots.

The morning has taken a turn for the better. My mind has quieted, and I no longer obsess over the writing I lost.

Soon, I will get dressed to go to the gym. There I will push weight with my legs while on my back. I hope to achieve a tighter ass and stronger hamstrings that resemble the grace of a swan’s neck.

Belief

What if a witch was to hold my hand?

Her delicate and designed palm

pressed against mine. I would feel heat.

Sweat on my forehead. She says my name

with reverence and then disappears

behind a burnt building.

My grandmother visits me.

Her presence is felt

like ripe avocados from the grocery store

ready for me to bring home.

Jesus confuses me. Was he full of man

or was he full of God? Is he ever called

a martyr?

I don’t know what I believe

but I believe this—there are many

kinds of apples in the produce section.

I like the tart green ones that are hard

to bite.

Christmas is approaching. I still hang on

to the sleeve of Santa, imagining it is soft

like the curl in my grandmother’s hair.