I will only know the truth
the first time.
A moment later
the truth is gone
and I will become fiction.
Except,
when I feel the wetness
of a storm.
There is so much rain in me
at the farthest space.
God will ask
what do you have
in that little bag of yours?
And I will open it
and God will see Mary’s face,
smiling when I bring her coffee.
A double take at April’s radiance.
A whole hologram of sky
when I woke,
in an atom of time,
life’s weather report.
May I? asks God.
And tipping the bag,
like planets,
birthdays,
sand boxes,
my mother holding me,
the smell of crayons,
the eternal dying.
Headstones,
and digging a grave
for my dog in bitter cold,
in a tee shirt,
and tears freezing my cheeks.
God’s eyes full of color,
flashes of lightning,
the pile of worlds
never larger than my soul,
and my father
playing his guitar,
looking into me as he plays.
The truth between me and Providence.
Everything between joy
and illness.
All the words I’ve ever uttered
and my heart held in hands
that belong to me,
and something else.
Fact and fiction.