was near Spectrum, the head shop on Big Bend Boulevard, in Webster Groves, our Midwestern suburb.
Our grey house used to be green and still was on the west side way up high where the young painters, art students from Webster College, said it was the ladder that wasn't high enough.
Our grey house with the green strip on one side,
where we lived, my two sisters and I, with my mother, after my parents divorced.
I was ten in 1971.
In our house on Atalanta when I was ten,
I came home one day from school and saw Jesus, making a latte, in our kitchen, with dirty blonde hair.
His blue eyes startled me.
He told me not to be afraid. I didn't know Him or lattes in Webster Groves in 1971.
I was alone with Jesus when our cat meowed I told Him not to hurt my kitty He said he wouldn't. I didn't believe him.
In our grey house in 1971, I didn't believe Jesus.
I was confused.
I asked Him how He got into our house near Spectrum, the head shop on Big Bend Boulevard.
Jesus said he slept in our grey house with the green strip last night, with my sister, in the basement.
I called out to my sister, in the basement. She didn't answer.
So, I called our Father from the phone in our house on Atatlanta where we lived, my two sisters and I, with my mother, after my parents divorced.
I told our Father I knew this man wasn't Jesus.
Our Father told me to run From this man that wasn't Jesus.
Run across the street to Avery School in Webster Groves, our Midwestern suburb. Find Jerry, the janitor.
I told our Father I was afraid.
The man that looked like Jesus, but wasn't Him, might hurt Kitty.
Our Father told me to put Kitty outside in the yard of our grey house with the green strip way up high.
I did.
When I went back into our house with the green strip way up high, Jesus was gone.
He left the pan with burnt milk on the stove, in our kitchen, in our house on Atalanta.
The next time I saw the man that wasn't Jesus, he was on our couch, in our basement, in our house, with my sister.
He was sticking a needle into the crease of his elbow, in our basement, in our Midwestern suburb, with our Spectrum, on Big Bend Boulevard.
My sister looked up from his arm on our couch.
My sister saw me. She said, "Oh."
The man with the dirty blonde hair in our grey house with the green strip way up high, waved.
Then the man that wasn't Jesus fell back onto our couch, on Atalanta, and his blue eyes closed.
He looked like shaking Jello.
I called our Father again.
I told our Father that He who really was only a he, was Jello next to my sister, on our couch, in our grey house, in 1971.
I was 10.
Our Father said he was coming over now, to our house where we lived, my two sisters and I, with my mother after my parents divorced
When I went back down into the basement, my sister and the man, with the closed blue eyes and dirty blonde hair, were gone from our house with the green strip, way up high, near Spectrum.
When our Father arrived, he told me never to call that man Jesus again.
Our Father waited with me, for my sister and the man that wasn't Jesus
to come back
to our house, in our little suburb.
In Webster Groves in 1971. Our Mother was at work.
No one came back that day to our grey, divorced house, with the green strip the college painters left because the ladder wasn't high enough.
Our Father left. Again. I was alone.
I went to the garage in the backyard of our suburb to get my pink bike with the plastic banana seat so I could ride past the head shop on Big Bend Boulevard to find my sister.
But my pink bike with the banana seat wasn't in the garage in the backyard, in Webster Groves in 1971.
I called our Father again.
Our Father called the man, that wasn't Jesus anymore, a god damned son of a bitch.
Our Father said that god damned son of bitch with the dirty blonde hair stole my bike.
I wanted Mary, my other sister, that lived in our grey, divorced house on Atalanta to come home.
Where in our Midwestern suburb was my sister Mary?
I cried in the grey house with our unpainted green strip for Mary.
As I cried where I lived,
Our Mother came home. I told her our Father had come to our grey, divorced house on Atalanta.
Our Mother was silent.
When she spoke, she said, she didn't know who Jesus was.
Our Mother didn't know where in our Midwestern suburb Jesus, our Father and my sisters had gone.
