Mormon Conversions

The songs mutate 
like a virus in my blood: 
“I Am a Child of 
God,” “Firm As the Mountains 
around Us,” “The Golden Plates.” 
I am twelve, have spent 
twelve years learning 
my insufficiencies, 

my inabilities. 
I will never spread 
the white cloth, never 
break bread or fill 
the tiny cups 
with water, never 
speak sacred words over 
them, pass them. 

Under the bright even 
sky, boys with shellacked 
faces play basketball. 
Closer to God (in the 
next life with numerous 
wives), they know power, 
vertical like the mount 
of Zion and wide—

I begin to bleed, 
am taught with the other
girls to crochet, to knit
a pattern of life, 
a pair of slippers 
for our fathers. 
Ah Penelope— 
unraveling woman. 

Now, on the rock our fathers
planted, in this house 
of love, making 
covenants, the congregation
stands. We sing “The Spirit of
God like a Fire 

Is Burning,” and the live
coal of reality ignites.