My Mother’s Mother’s God

Made in the image of a man
she found on earth and married: a lawyer.
 
Without him, she picked driveway blackberries
and turned dollars to skittles in my blue hand.
 
With him, we sat like stumps in church
where the right way was clear: no flip flops.
 
My mother proceeded from this father.
The sermon droned. She opened a hymnal
 
and climbed inside, came out singing new songs
I never heard her mother sing. Holy mysteries
 
elicit two responses: latch onto what is
known (according to someone) or live
 
in the question. Answer it
daily, failingly—who do you think I am?
 
Today I think you made silhouettes of trees
against raspberry clouds. I think you’re
 
spreading mushrooms on a dead log.
I like to write with the sermon on.
 
Close the book, my mother’s mother said.
What’s in the book, asked my mother.
 
I was raised up under stiff sanctuary light
and charged with wilding the space between us.
 
Whose fault is that?
I am opening the windows. I am proceeding.