#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book

mormoni

I grieved for all those years
of going to his grave–
when all along Mother had known
of the machines keeping his body alive–
machines that had more life in their batteries
than he had left in his years.

David was my idol,
Mother believed,
in the way Tab Hunter & Troy Donahue
had been for teen girls in the sixties,
but he was more my Mary,
my sacred masculine,
my intercessor to the better life.

Mother was like a blanched almond,
the Catholic holy water & Mormon fairy dust
boiling away, rubbing away the hull,
exposing & releasing something akin to cyanide.

David would do Patrick’s temple work.
It was atonement–
not through his blood
but through the water & the spirit.

With one article from The Ensign,
my mother was able to set her body free
by setting my father’s spirit free.

#Fiction Friday: #Novelines from the Book

mormoni

My father’s life had been artificially prolonged, trapping my mother in marriage, so that what God had joined together, science had solidified.

Mother hadn’t divorced my father nor annulled the marriage, for she hadn’t wanted to make her children bastards.

My father’s death would legitimize everything, including my mother’s relationship with David. My father had been hovering in the wings, while David had been waiting in them.

Mother sought my absolution in one night, for a lifetime of lies. David had already granted her this thing, even as she continued to perpetuate the lie.

Mother had wanted him to live so he wouldn’t die spiritually–for the sake of her own conscience.

She had bled from every pore, for I knew she had believed that to let Patrick die after a suicide attempt would be to send his soul straight to Hell–an unpardonable sin in the Catholic Church.

How could any mortal be responsible for the destination of an individual’s soul, for wouldn’t that put them on par with God?

Mother had become as God, or Goddess, in a way, for even as she had resurrected Patrick from the dead, at least in my eyes, she was now taking away his last breath of life.

The plan was for David to do Patrick’s work in the temple, turning his enemy into his savior.

Mother believed Patrick would go to middle heaven, the terrestrial, where he would be one of the angels, never to have sex again.

#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book

mormoni

The terrestrial kingdom was Protestant heaven,
the celestial, Mormon heaven,
but even the telestial surpassed all understanding.

While my father had hovered in earthly purgatory,
I had been living in a heaven on earth,
my mother, in the hell she had created for herself.

My childhood had been one of opaqueness,
my adulthood, of startling transparency.

If God had wanted Patrick to live,
he would live without a machine,
but by that rationale,
if God had wanted him to die,
no machine on earth should have kept him in limbo.

When I’d believed my father dead,
I’d never wept,
but when I saw him alive & dying,
it was then that I finally grieved,
for his death finally became real to me.

#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book

mormoni

He’d never read to me Mother Goose
or Dr. Seuss,
but the Dead Poets,
& the works of a particular student of his–
Marianne something–
who fancied herself a poetess.
We’d never seen puppets teaching shapes & colors
but musicals as bright as candy corn.

For our family tree was such that
if there were older generations left,
I could not see them through the leaves at the top—
where cobwebs had netted them together
through the shadows my mother had placed there.

The graven image of Moroni topped
Mormon temples like a wedding cake,
the interior of which were supposed to be like the
Celestial Kingdom of Heaven on Earth,
but my dream heaven was high on a mountaintop
where snowflakes fell in Spirograph-like creations,
or riding an elephant on a beach,
the sun at our backs,
or deep in the bayou under the Spanish moss
where the crawdads sang—
anywhere in nature,
where the words of the poets
were painted on the sky.

They all spoke on the Law of Chastity,
& you would think there was only one law to break
but to them,
breaking this law led to every other sin—
abortion, poverty, & eternal damnation.

The idea that God had once been
as we once were,
that He had been dust imbued
with the breath of life–
an inhabitant of another earth–
frightened me.
I wanted Him to have always been–
without beginning,
without end.

#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book

mormoni

My mother was once like me
as I was now,
even as she was now
what she would always be,
& I would never be–
like the unspoken Goddess of Kolob.

She would never change her mind
about the Church,
for the Church had changed her.
It was not the figurative blood of Jesus
that put the scarlet in her cheeks,
but it was the psychological hold
that the Church had on my mother
that removed her scarlet letter
like an old tattoo.

As she drew closer to God,
she withdrew from us,
even as David & I grew closer than ever,
but a part of me still feared losing him
if he lost Mother completely.

Those Mormons were a patriotic sort–
red, white, & blue all over–
for their church had been born
& come of age
in the American pioneer days;
they had abandoned God’s higher law
of polygamy
to bow down
& kowtow
to the less-enlightened practice
of monogamy.

What separated the occult
from the Divine?
Was it a matter of whom was sought out–
the God of our mothers & forefathers
or our ancestors & friends gone by?