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David Cameron catches poems half-formed from overheard comments or a surprising twist of phrase. He was a Presbyterian pastor for many years and ended his career directing a Meals on Wheels program in western North Carolina. He is now on loan to the waterfalls and mountain trails of the area.


Trigger Warning

“Fuck Jesus! Fuuuck Jeeesus!” Loren spews
his Diné fury calling the congregation to
nervous worship, spilling the anguish of
too many years walking ashamed
in the Anglo’s shadow.

He has come today to take us to church.
He won’t abide our hiding behind
a blonde, blue-eyed Jesus again.
“Fuck that guy!” He slurs and lurches
to clutch my arm and make his point.

“White Jesus,” he says, “Is a rickety
prop. What about your pale skin makes
you think you’re special? This lie
gives rise to unholy practice and
then it collapses from lack of heart.”

Hitching his pants, he squints one eye, and
points a finger to the far horizon.
“Hózhó,” He says.
“Walk with me in beauty. Forget duty.
Forget privilege. Forget the blessing

you hope to wring from a disapproving
Father. Your skin is thin and could be
thicker. Your vibe is winter to the seed that
needs it warm to grow. Let it go.
For fuck’s sake, let it go.”

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