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THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO X
Prayer is what you do when you don’t know whether your animal will live through the night. Pink like Pepto-Bismol staining a goat’s chin. Everything lives and dies, including my ability to be philosophical about death. X and I split a cherry soda on the docks and have a silent conversation with the waves. I diagram scars on my chest and he whistles a bluegrass tune. Cowboys and such. Is love. Is loss. Is only a matter of time.
He wants to connect with the earth in a sacred way. Back to the wilderness? “Not exactly.” X runs barefoot through the streets in a rainstorm. Comes home with pupils like a golden pond. I wash his feet and hand him the last Alka Seltzer, fizzing in a small glass jar. X’s anger is a diamond he has spent his whole life afraid to lose. That’s godly. Shit.
