Dad steps into prayer before the sky has even settled on what color she will wear.
On his knees by the couch, he buries his head in-between thick corduroy cushions
looking for God like loose change.
When he is like this, we move cat-like and perch on top of furniture. We stare and stare.
Waiting for his return, bright eyed and bearing good news.
There is only good news or no news from heaven.
We pray over meals and I wonder if I am stealing God’s attention. I am told I am made in his image.
I tie a prayer at the tail end of my thanks, keep your eyes peeled, I say, my dad is looking for you.
He looks like you because he looks like me.
There are stories told in Old Testament technicolor. Enoch the prophet, they say,
did not die. They say God walked him to heaven like a dog on a leash.
See, there are secret ways to God, like the couch.
I take a blanket to my father’s bare back in the evening and crawl underneath
to share in that spiritual body heat and fall asleep against his signs of life.
I dream big doors; I dream small hands trying to open them.
I awake in the morning amazed. My body has been lifted and moved to my bed.
Dad has done for me what God did for Enoch. I went to paradise and did not feel a thing.
The Isaac in question is a poet/musician living in Elgin, Illinois.