a love story: on getting lost
For back stories, pull up my mixed tape: love songs.
I want to have a party. I haven’t worn a tank top or listened to non-Christian music in over a year, and now we don’t work for a church, and my bra straps are showing. I found those blue jeans with a hole in the knee, and I’ve mailed invitations for my own birthday.
We have a house now – a love shack with paneled walls and thirty year old shag carpet. I want it decorated with candles in every room. I want fold up chairs and tables and so many people we can’t move.
I want enough grapes dangling from a pretty tray to feed forty people, and I want games in the back. I want to get lost in conversation. I want to think about theology and listen to Jimi Hendrix while I put on my makeup.
I tried, but I am not a youth minister’s wife, and he’s going to be a lawyer now. He wants to be right and have buying power, and I want to be a poet.
I want to sit in class and get lost with the lost. I want to commune with storytellers and picture painters, the brave artist souls to love me like I’ve never tried on church or looked like church or sounded like it.
The sick need company. Whatever disease the church has, the members are going to catch. Seth will sit in the front room. I will sit in the back.
Come to my party
August 10 from 4:00 to midnight.
We’ll have cokes, food, and power-lust,
pride, bitterness, and cake.
We’ll play horseshoes and be self-preserved.
No gifts please.
A common enemy is gift enough.