Found Jesus / Bob Brussack

All that she was,
and it was plenty,
was reduced by a scrub-faced preacher
at 1:13 p.m. on the afternoon they buried her
to this: in the final days before she left us, she found Jesus.
And maybe she did.
In a way.
“Nobody’s an atheist in a foxhole.”
So maybe she did.
Maybe she untethered herself
from all the evidence
and covered herself in a Jesus blanket.
I’ll probably do something similar,
push comes to shove comes to penultimate.
But what’s that the lawyers say
about consent under duress?
Anyhow, those of us who actually knew her
knew that, her physique notwithstanding,
she was pixie-souled.
Life’s a cabaret, old chum.
And she was in a hurry,
maybe because she’d known most of her life
that her life would be shorter than most.
Something about her kidneys.
Her wry wit poured from her
as if frantic to escape a condemned building in a tremor.
Her eyes sparkled behind her glasses.
A tilt of her lip gave her away
when she wanted her zingers
to sneak up on you unawares.
Okay, maybe she found Jesus.
But all that she was,
and it was plenty,
will not be cabined
within the claim
of an epiphanic moment.

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