Theophany

The God of my childhood lived in cobwebs. August nights I snuck into the hall closet and sat crisscross-applesauce; prayed to Him beneath the limp arms of winter coats. I don’t remember what I whispered into that dark. When the A/C kicked on, I watched my God dance. My God’s fragility made confession easier. I huddled there until my feet went static, then numb. Sometimes I pushed my face into the carpet and breathed in, hoping to inhale God and in this way become a good person. I was not old enough for Communion. My Sunday School teacher taught a new Bible verse every week. That week: Psalm 103:13 As a father shows compassion to his children, so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him. She told us fear exists in the heart for two reasons: to show reverence and to punish sin. Muffled voices in the hallway then something shattered against the closet door. My father’s voice slurred and slippery: “Fine, take my kids. I wish you died in that trap house, you stupid junkie whore.”

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Max Gillette is a queercrip poet from Detroit, MI. Their work has been published in Arkana Magazine, Thimble Literary Magazine, Winnow Magazine, Sage Cigarettes, and elsewhere. Max’s poetry has appeared in digital prosody guides and has been nominated for Best of the Net. Max is currently pursuing an MFA in creative writing at Ohio State University, where they teach poetry and edit for The Journal.