A. N. Higgins's Gospel Poems

Matthew 12:43

We went through arid places seeking rest did not find it anywhere traded secret for secret shadows for rocks sticks shells left no footprints on the hopscotch court every summer hanging laundry hair burning paring our fingers to bone afraid to prick couldn’t become flesh and blood swallowed ash starving for rainwater leaving fingerprints on flower petals glass bottles wished to skate in long skirts red-cheeked knew if we touched metal poles our skin would stick forever glimmering in streetlights phone booths packed up and drove here ran around and around and around the baseball fields every ball falling right into the lake never found walking out of our way to each other’s bus stops waiting eyes peeling spinning on counter stools exhaling ourselves into clouds hovering between each other’s mouths whispering won’t you come back to me won’t you come back.

Matthew 12:44 - 45

The house I left is unoccupied, swept clean and put in order. Before I know how to read I stand in the backyard knowing I’ll never grow my own trees, my own lattice fence, know how to fan cards soft-edged between my fingers, hold them too close for anyone to see, know what to spend and what to save for last. Later, I grow afraid of photos, my own face openmouthed in the flash. In the Indigo on Robson, sign glowing like a wood smoke soft peony candle, a book about self-compassion says my friends and I are all narcissists that this is how it will be with this wicked generation. Going home across the bridge my fingers bleed, crackle light across black steamed windows, make a hundred tiny hearts float up. My friends are having babies without me and I want to buy a dress with flowers on it before summer is out. I keep sending them songs like, Can you hear this? Can you hear it? Can you hear me?