“angels”
We both grew up on Dixie Chicks,
The music we would hear on the Sunday afternoons after church.
The spring air, the blue sky, you and I
Eating the communion wafers that tasted like cardboard,
Listening to lectures:
“Don’t stray from the path.”
Neither of us were holy. We were children.
We listened to songs about the angels,
And I tried to imagine us both with wings and halos.
I couldn’t see it, I could only see us.
Us, running through this town barefoot,
Sticky cola spilled on our collarbones.
Counting the days until summer began, when we could swim in the creek
And tell each other our hopes to make it out of here.
We both know we wouldn’t, that years from now we would become what we feared:
Tired people with children, listening to Dixie Chicks.
That day after church when we sat in the parking lot,
Counting bruises and clouds in the sky.
You said, “do you think we’ll get into Heaven?”
Because that’s what you made us.
Kids, skinned knees, bright eyes,
Who were already worrying if they were good enough.
Pure enough.
Holy enough.
kookooroobi