May heathens roast in hell like chickens on a slow cooker,
prays my Sunday School teacher. I see Homer
Lee Masters, splayed on a grill, fingers dangling
over coals. Hear him crying like a shot dog.
Sweet Jesus, cleanse Homer of whiskey and loose women,
she asks at Easter, warning us about the sin
of slow dancing like that hussy Salome.
I see Mama lean on a gentle wind, swaying
in the kitchen to Sinatra’s croon
I’ve got you under my skin, deep in the heart of me.
Nobody’s going to shame my mama
so I beg Sweet Jesus for an angel
to swoop down and carry that teacher away
drop her in a fire with slow-cooking chickens.
From _Oregon East Magazine_ (vol. 37, 2006)