If it Were True

The preacher was a big man

with a big voice fierce as

West Texas wind.

Sanctuary walls gathered the sound

before it could escape between bricks

and sent it straight at me

the way a canyon

aims a flood.

I was seven,

still attentive to wonders

others assured me

did not exist—

oneness and belonging

no need for hope—

the lovely world

slowly cooling to black.

The message he boomed—

God wants in to your life,

open the door for heaven’s sake,

invite him in— 

will you leave the creator

in the cold, in the dark, 

exposed to the elements of your doubt,

poor thing?

It was a forceful plea

meant to tumble me senseless

and leave me like driftwood in sand

on the Island of Saved Souls—

a spiritual vacuum blissfully filled.

The message I heard—

What’s this? My life, apart?

An empty space walled away from light?

An alone place where God isn’t?

Terrifying.
Or would be if it were true.