Amorak Huey

AMORAK AUTOCORRECTS TO AMORAL

which surely comes as no surprise to anyone
in the town where I grew up. I hated
that place. All those two-story New Deal homes

laid out in grids between churches.
The town mall where we practiced baseball
in summer, football in fall,

learning early the value of muscle
& God: a prayer before every game.
I’ve never felt so vulnerable, my bowed head

a lie. We had moved there
from 700 miles away & I always knew
I would leave. My first girlfriend

dumped me because of God.
She was right. Our mailman stopped by
to witness to my mother

about the nature of love.
My friends slipped New Testaments
into my bag at sleepovers.

This isn’t the whole story.
I still don’t listen very well
though it’s not true

that I hated it there. 
That girl did teach me to kiss,
after all, the possibilities

of tongue & the small miracle
of holding hands in the dark;
she taught me to believe

in innocence. Each spring, the river
flooded. So much time has passed
& now I watch my own daughter

ignoring me. I wonder
who she will break up with & why.
Where will she feel at home?

I drove her through that town once
on our way to the ocean.
Predictably, everything was smaller

than I remembered, the whole
experience less meaningful
than I hoped. An entire town

in need of a fresh coat of paint.
If God was still there,
we did not see him.

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