Once my childhood friend
and his feuding parents
brought me along to their temple—
a low concrete dome, smooth
as sweet sin.
Inside, there was swaying
and laying on of hands. I remember
some sweat, no weeping.
The band was cranking,
but not well rehearsed. Seemed ready
to drop into Eye of the Tiger
at every downbeat.
Plagues were cured that night.
Sighed and gave up
their malign intent.
Was I starving—
ready to sit and eat? I knew
neither spoon nor soup for stirring
those shallows.
When the blond-tressed
handmaiden of the lord called
on us to come forward, I did. She saw
in my eye something thin
and sharp.
A swift flick to sink
the tortilla back into
its pan.
James Miller won the Connecticut Poetry Award in 2020. Recent poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Rabid Oak, North Dakota Quarterly, Scoundrel Time, 8 Poems, Phoebe, Yemassee, Mantis, Concho River Review, Cleaver, Rathalla Review, Worcester Review, Elsewhere and Counterclock. Follow on Twitter @AndrewM1621.