i was raised reading a bible
of conditional statements

& sometimes the good book.
before bed, mom recited proverbs.

if you play with your shadow,
then it will eat you. but i never did

believe her, flipped a switch
after she turned the lights off

& left, my flashlight beaming
an O across my bedroom wall,

my fingers bending & twisting
into black foxes that escaped

into my room. i didn’t play
with my shadows. i made theater

of skepticism & let them star
in the show. but once, half-awake,

i caught them scaling the wall,
stretching into a maw. i feared

becoming their meal & screamed
for mom. what did i tell you?

i stopped playing with my shadows
& started ignoring the pastor

when he’d call superstitions the devil’s
proverbs. i still believed in God

but also my bible. my bible a game
of telephone that first rang across

the ocean or inside a sugar cane field
or in the still air after a hurricane.

my bible an insurance policy
against what God won’t cover.

my bible an instruction manual
on how to collar the uncontrollable

& teach it to come running
when i call its name