On Not Visiting the Creation Museum by James Miller

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.

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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.