Father’s grammar: imperative,
Do not leave the table, but wait
for me to finish. Who puts food
on the table? Our Father who

delivers me, almost thirteen,
to bible camp, Do not leave
Jerusalem, but wait for the gift
my Father promised. Hallowed

be the tater tots and chocolate
milk cartons which sustain me
through a week when I do not
sleep or shower or shit, least

of these, though I sneak from
the bunk house late at night,
to the swimming pool lockers,
to toilets where I can be alone

with the Lord, waiting until Friday,
when the camp nurse finds me
hunched over on concrete slick
from the feet of a thousand teenage

disciples, who believe in fart jokes
and the Holy Spirit. Bless her who
holds a damp rag to my brow,
who calls Father to drive me home.