My carved plank, in cloudland

mhoerman@gmail.com

Sin

The midweek sermon, delivered by your father

From a rotary phone in Kansas.

A storm gathered above the prairie,

Marshaled at the state line.

From there, it’s twenty-five miles to my bedroom,

Where I hold you in a way your father should never see.

Satiating things are sermon enough for us.

We’ve learned to divine from the storm.

Soaring, we push toward the azure horizon,

Away from this shameful town.

We offer no excuse, seek no absolution.

Your unbuttoned jeans, my fingers tracing the tingling circuit.

Your father dials as lightning hits the line.

And we are together with him in paradise.