… So I said, “My relationship with the Trinity is complicated.”
Last Thursday, I came home to find Jesus with his head in my refrigerator. He pops his head up over the door. “You need groceries.”
“For who!?”
He chuckles, “My favourite fish, mayo, bread—those Filipino buns were exquisite, by the way—and fresh lettuce.”
“You’re gonna have to wait. It’s hot as shit outside.”
“No time like the present!” He said, finally closing the fridge door.
“You’re disgusting. I still don’t get why you’re such a big deal.”
“Go on now.” He smiles before stuffing a handful of my pickled cabbage in his maw.”
“Great! Now no one else can eat that cabbage.”
“My hands are clean! Go on now!” He motions with his head for me to leave.
“You’re toxic! I hate you!” I drop my bag and make an about-face to FreshCo.
I will sometimes use new words in my poems as I work to improve my vocabulary. The problem is that when I revisit the poem, I’ve forgotten the meaning and how to pronounce the words.
So now, in addition to the fear of reciting in front of people, I’m afraid of mispronouncing words in my poem. I can see some know-it-all coming up after telling me I misused and mispronounced the word.
I’ll pretend I did it on purpose, but they’ll see I’m lying. Then everyone will find out I’m a fib-teller (which is different from a storyteller), and they will start questioning if I even write my poems.
The next time I show up, there’ll be a sign on the door with my picture and an X through it.
No Fake Poets Allowed.
Then I will sit on the stairs and cry, and the rain will start. People will go in and out. Someone will tell the owner that a homeless person is sitting on the stairs.
The cops will show up, and I won’t say anything. Just sit there, soaked, clutching my notebook like proof of identity.
When I feel the cold slap of the cuffs, I’ll find my voice: “No, officer, I’m a poet!”
By now, I’m a spectacle; everyone came outside to see the fake poet get thrown into the back of the car.
My notebook is on the ground, soaked, with all the spare pages floating down the street.
Then I disappear
… cause you know it never ends well when cops and black people cross paths.
My long Canadian weekend is flying by. I’m taking it easy. Cleaning, writing, watching movies, listening to music and entertaining Jesus whenever he drops by.
Sun May 18
© 2025 Samantha Williams. All Rights Reserved.
