Twisted Shapes of Light. William Jolliff

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      Big Bang

      Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house. (Matthew 5:15)

      Just when I’m tempted to believe

      that my fundamentalist neighbors

      have taken the admonition to heart—

      Hope is dangerous, kill it young—

      I hike by their church-school at noon

      and hear the holy thunder: children

      file silently through the fire doors, then

      explode like a storm of Bazooka bubbles,

      blue plaid jumpers and creased khakis

      scattering and rolling like billiard balls

      across the felt-green, tightly-cropped park

      of a playground, jet-propelled by shouts

      that echo with a morning’s elation,

      cries as bright and lusty as those of their

      publicly-educated peers, maybe more.

      The air is electric with the freshest

      of flesh, swinging and hanging, even

      dancing from the bars of parti-colored,

      evangelically-maintained jungle gyms,

      while rippling clouds of sweaty freedom

      rise over the undulating mass

      of limbs, until at two bells they fall

      back to the quiet brick, exhausted

      but not quite dim, new creations,

      the fire of damp cheeks and matted hair

      bearing testimony that the lamp

      within cannot be wholly dimmed,

      even by bushels of the darkest belief.

      The Elders Visit

      And such a joy they are to see. Their shirts

      alone are worth my time, such blinding white

      against their creased black slacks, sensible shoes,

      and shining paperbacks: keys for my salvation.

      Come in, fellows! I ask about their mission,

      their months away from family and home,

      and how the Lord is blessing them in Oregon.

      And I ask them to tell me about God. They do.

      But sir, have you read the Book of Mormon?. . .

      Hmm. So this Smith, was he quite the scholar

      of old Semitic languages? No, not at all!

      Here their smiles bloom, their eyes turn to pearl:

      No, they say, just a third grade education. . . .

      The elders are sure I’ll share their wonder.

      And so I do, recalling deadly afternoons

      in Dr. Reader’s dungeon, each minute an hour,

      each semester at least a millennium,

      offering up my tortured mistranslations

      of Plato, Sophocles, worn pieces of Xenophon,

      sweating each particle and grave accent,

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