Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
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Rated: E · Poetry · Religious · #2182093
Based on an experience from my LDS mission. Name changed.
The first time I took my companion out,
we knocked into a houseful of Messianic Jews.
         Come in! We’d love to talk!
I watched Sister Jones bound through the door,
excited as a Labrador puppy.

Twenty minutes later,
we both had wilted under the onslaught.
         I’m a historian, so I know
         I read a book by a PhD that proves

They weaponized old tales,
lobbed hearsay, rumor, the kitchen sink.
I deflected out of battle-hardened habit,
almost had us extricated when
they asked us to pray with them.
Sister Jones perked her ears.

Twenty minutes later,
as they still orated in turns and tongues
like Zoramites at the Rameumptom
         Enlighten these foolish girls
         Save their hell-bound souls

Sister Jones exploded into tiny fragments:

It seemed apropos to excuse ourselves
for our next appointment.

Young as I was,
I couldn’t yet explain the beauty
of battering yourself against
unyielding souls for that rare
moment you finally see daylight
through the cracks.
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