Fiction Friday: Micropoetry from the Book

Temple Square was where the flowers
of the future of Mormonism
were planted for 18 months,
their wombs ready,
their spirits readying.

Little boys played Hangman on the backs of Church programs,
little girls drew hearts & flowers & sunshiny things,
but I drew my last straw.

Mormon parents taught their children,
even as I had been allowed to learn.
They fed them testimonies like
I had been fed the humanities.

They all believed they knew,
but I knew what I didn’t know.
I knew them,
but they didn’t know me.
Their books were open,
my mind was closed.

To bear my testimony
would be to bear false witness;
to covet Elder Roberts
would be to covet another woman’s
future husband.

Fiction Friday: Micropoety from the Book

In the dewy dawn,
Green Haven sparkled.
The sun ascended to its throne
in the misty grey sky,
& our world awakened
to the darkness of ours.

Red roses made me think of
deoxygenated blood,
white, the pallor of death,
but yellow was the antithesis thereof—
the Kingdom of Heaven.

Mother’s roses were
Valentine red,
Caitlin’s were white
as angel robes,
& mine were yellow,
for hope, like the sun
Cathy Dollanganger seldom saw.

As my mother grew into Mormonhood,
blossoming like a rose in Temple Square,
she became more affectionate,
& thus, a stranger to me.

A woman’s heart could love but one man,
but a man could divide his love
among the lilies in the field,
& conquer the world.