God's Gutter Ball

When I came to your bedside

that night, my lip quivering

in a premature panic you

taught me a secret.

“Just count the seconds between

the thunder and the strike,”

so I did.






“God is just bowling,”

you said with a cup of tea

in your hand

coaxing me into bed

and hushing my tears.


When the thunder barrels

down the clouded lanes

illuminating the somber

sky with God’s strikes

I think only of you in your silk nightgown

On that Wednesday night.


And as the storm moves closer

I am not frightened by it.

I count the seconds,





You have gone so far
I cannot count the distance.


The thought hits me like

a perfect strike to the chest

—God has no gutter balls.


I am frightened

only of








Please reload

© 2019 Rag Queen Periodical  website  designed by M. Perle Tahat