In my prayer group they always want
to talk about the Big Bang, about the galaxies
and the gasses. I want to talk about
the light in the trees. A smile. A glance.
They always want to talk about the saints
and the martyrs. I want to say
I was happy. I was sad. I had come home late,
and Dad was watching Johnny Carson,
and John Denver was singing, flickering
in the dark. No, Dad! He’s not talking about
drugs. He had seen it raining fire
in the sky. His life was full of wonder
but his heart still knew some fear—friends
around a campfire and everybody’s high.