When I wake, I look out the window
and see Jesus descending a tornado
in the front yard. He’s all arms-out, white robe,
gold sash, a pair of Pope-like slippers.
He’s glowing, iridescent—
more rainbow than a postcard.
The neighbors are getting lawn chairs,
staring up, waving, praying—dogs
barking, Mary’s catching the spirit,
yelling at the dogs in tongues
to get them all to Shut up! But
they’re dogs witnessing our Lord
and Savior, Jesus Christ of Nazareth,
descend a non-destructive tornado
in a rural Georgia town, and if Mary
doesn’t hurry, she’ll be late for yoga class,
when, right on time, the tornado winds
itself down and the neighborhood
goes quiet—even the dogs. Then,
morning light like a candle
behind a pink rose—a silence
beyond time—his voice as plain
as yours or mine asking for directions,
which is why he showed up, lost.
And when everyone begins to see
—really see why he’s here, they do
what people have always done,
they fold up their lawn chairs
and go back to work, while Mary
gives him directions over a cup of tea.
Kerry James Evans is the author of Bangalore. He lives in Milledgeville, Georgia, where he teaches in the creative writing program at Georgia College & State University and serves as the poetry editor for Arts & Letters.