Religion The Mormon Faith
J
James McLain
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They knock on my door,
two boys in black ties,
clean faces,
smiling like they've never been punched,
like they've never felt
the sting of a whiskey bottle gone dry.
They talk about light,
salvation,
a golden book,
a prophet who saw the heavens split—
but all I see is the weight of Sunday mornings,
the ache of rules carved in stone.
I tell them no thanks,
close the door,
light a cigarette,
and think of their God,
always watching,
always judging,
while mine sits in the corner,
quiet as a broken lamp.
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