That night you came over to cook me dinner
you wore a poodle skirt.
I lived in the desert, then, in a cinderblock house.
I was a scientist,
patches on the elbows of my rumpled tweed.
The night was cool and clear,
and we went out on the patio to look at the stars,
and looking up, you said,
I’ve never seen the moon shaped like an egg,
when a giant meteor
came flaming over the ridge
and slammed into the earth,
plowing a long, glassy furrow.
The ground rippled out in waves,
and for a moment there wasn’t any sound,
and then all the Fiestaware
in the kitchen started to rattle,
bouncing up and down in its rickety racks.
The cinderblock began to glow.
Ephphatha! Jesus whispered: Be opened!
And I was.