The Missionaries
Poetry by Nahshon Cook
Art by Stevon Lucerno
As I sat with the missionaries that were trying
To convert me, I saw myself in them,
But in silence, as they spoke saying,
“You won’t be saved if you believe that God’s a Him!”
“Saved from what?” I asked.
They couldn’t answer, but they went
On anyway and I let them because I saw
That their yearning for my understanding was sent,
But I didn’t know from where, because seeing
Takes time, ya’ know, like having a friend
Takes time—but the kind that’s small though. It’s
Like listening to the life story of a flower through to its end.
That’s when the angel told me that the missionaries
Were speaking in unsent letters that were on the verge
Of prophecy, but not yet, because they were still
Afraid to see themselves as they are: a denied urge.
“But, don’t you think God is both?” I asked them.
Because I was curious as to what they’d say.
To which, one of them pulled out a notebook
While the other bowed his head and began to pray.
“Are you sure that’s true,” My head asked my heart,
“And if so, then how?” My heart said, “Yes, that’s Love
Learning to embrace itself like the missionaries are trying to do
By creating stories that they think he should be afraid of.”
And as the three of us sat there the eye-sockets of the missionaries’
Faces changed into the curves of dancing lines drawn on empty space
Where shadows are chased because bodies walk away from light.
The angel said to me, “They were sent to you as a gift of grace.