from the desert, once a week

When God was still good, I was seven. I drew my name on the manila sides of my bible and thought about the boy I liked who sat a few rows behind me. Nothing ever sunk in—not the devil, not the disciples, not the crosses or the ways I was supposed to be a better child.

When God was still good, I was seven, and I still thought saying no was a sin.

When God was still good, I was seven and I thought he must live in the Bingo Hall basement of my church and smoke cigarette after cigarette, shouting “Bingo!” before anyone else…