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Stories

On the Ignatian Retreat

The way you talk about Jesus
Is sweet.
I don’t mean like the kind of sweet
You tell a guy he is
When you don’t like him
That way.

It’s sweet like something sticky
So chewy
It gets lodged on the rough
Underbelly
Of your tooth.
Like gum on a shoe.
On a sole.

So that you’re
Stuck
Tasting love
Tasting blood as a byproduct of
Love
For hours.

And when you
Finally
Pry that pesky piece
Of taffy wisdom
Of caramel thought
From off your tooth,

The last crescent moon of it
Lingers on your tongue—
A crystal sliver—that you
dare not break
before it dissolves
into grace.

Delight.
Delight.
Delight.