I’m certain I was six years old

when something first went strange

about God. Or what the grownups

claimed for God – Him, they pronouned it.

 

Something first went strange when

my question about Jesus also questioned

claims for God, pronouned He/Him/His

though nobody saw Him face-to-bearded-face.

 

When my question about Jesus threatened

my own immortal soul, I was surely six.

Though nobody saw him face-to-bearded-face

the grownups swore Jesus was real. But was he?

 

My soul, on loan from God, must have been six

years in my mortal body. Not five.

The grownups swore Jesus was real. But was he?

I already knew myths, fables, moral tales.

 

Six years in my mortal body. (Not five,

a year too young to question if church stories

could cousin-up with myths, fables, moral tales.)

Jesus was good, I knew. But who had seen him?

 

Five years was too young to doubt church storylines.

By seven I was playing my self-conscious self.

Jesus was good, I knew that, but who had seen him?

Nobody in church, for sure, despite the pictures.

 

At seven I was a self-conscious self,

too kid-brainy for a six-year-old’s simple question.

Nobody in church, for sure, though there were pictures,

had seen Jesus in the flesh. They weren’t that old.