As a child, I’d sit in church
and imagine gravity reversing,
wondering if I’d unhook my chair
in time to cushion the fall
as I plunged upwards
into steel scaffolding.
The sermon would fade
while I imagined a chasm
tearing open between my feet
or imagined drowning in black
shingles as the roof collapsed
and gave us our eternity early.
My eyes glazed and I dreamt
whether I was brave enough
to escape those disasters,
or brave enough to simply stand
and walk out on my parents,
still rapt and reverent.
But each of those young visions
felt equally impossible
until I was a little older.