The first time I saw my husband, he was dancing,
his son cradled to his chest with one hand, the other
cupped, upturned to God. His eyes were closed, lips
mouthing indecipherable prayers, silent & worshipful
as a fig. How could I not fall in love? My favorite fruits
have always been the ones that couldn’t grow here, the sad
potted lemon tree. Look, every houseplant I’ve ever had
is dead, not from neglect, but over-watering. I’m trying
to figure out what language God speaks. It’s a silly question, impossible
as asking how the desert looks to a banana tree. Once I plucked
at God’s vocal cords, & they purred at a frequency right at the edge
of human hearing. The dog was going crazy, licking at my hands.
The hum was gone before I could even close my eyes. In my childhood
church, we knew God was speaking when our tongues shuddered out
wet, mangled noises we couldn’t comprehend. The whole sermon,
I would just stare at the wooden door behind my father, my brain
tugging symbols from its meaningless wood grain. If I closed one eye,
the swirls & ripples would wrinkle into Jesus’ stern face. When I closed
the other, if my father bellowed at precisely the right pitch, I could see
a goat-headed Satan. One time, at the peak of my father’s crescendo—
he was hopping, hurtling across the altar, descending feverishly
into the unmoved audience—three bats flew out of the vent
& began to halo around his head. I had always imagined it was
some forgotten tongueless god that lived in the church’s cellar
behind the cold metal door. After worship, while my father called
the exterminator, I kneeled in the basement, my ear pressed tight
against the heavy door. If I knocked just right, the other side
would flutter darkly, their whisper of wings almost forming a word.