by Brett Rutherford
The Mennonite minister,
persistent, soul-saver,
sniffing the unsaved
in our unruly house,
knocks at the door again.
It is his third attempt.
I peer out, as screen
door is the only thing
between me and his
elder-beard eminence.
"Are your parents home?"
he asks dismissively;
no child alone
is worth his trouble.
I am brimful of movies,
Sinbad and flying saucers.
"You see those marks
on the hillside up there?" —
"Yes, boy, what of them?"—
"Those are the tracks
of the Cyclops. It came down
this morning and ate
my mother." —
"Is your father home, then?" —
"See that scorch mark
in front of the garage?
That's all that's left
of my father
when the death-ray took him." —
"Now see, here, boy --
to lie is a sin. Besides,
I can hear their voices."
From out the living room
the shouting rises.
"Son of a bitch! Bastard!"
my mother shouts.
"What kind of man — "
"You are my wife!"
he bellows back.
"Son of a bitch! Bastard!"
she yells again.
"Oh, well!" mutters
the bearded Anabaptist.
"I’d best come back
another day."
