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On Religion


By Phoebe Driscoll

I don’t know much about Sunday School and paradise
But Jesus is a myth because my savior is
My brother’s plastic surgeon
My sister’s toothy grin
The steady drone of tires on asphalt as my mother’s Volvo raced along Route 12
in the lazy heat of a New England summer
and I was just a goddamn kid,
biting my nails,
picking at the dead grass,
waiting for an angel.
But the only God I’ve ever known
was the way my family rescued me that day
And the way she choked back tears through clenched teeth
And the way I saw her for the first time
And the way we were both broken
And the way her voice sounded on the phone with my father:
“She’s here. No, no, no need to call the police –
she’s safe.
she’s safe.”

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