Layne Ransom currently serves as a co-editor of The Broken Plate. Her work has appeared in vis a tergo, fourpaperletters, amphibi.us, and 13 Myna Birds. You look nice today.
Blackbirds flew in missing man formation over your house the day I stole Jesus from a rhinestone casket in Atlanta. He was on traveling exhibit for the faithful who knew He’d risen in spirit. His open-mouthed wounds vomited a smell like maggots microwaving three minutes on high—like that one woman said about Lazarus, he stinketh.
I didn’t know what to do now that the Lord was all mine except bring Him to you, so he bounced around in the back of my Subaru ‘til I got to where you are, up a gravel drive named for a long-dead general. I carried him in Mother Mary arms to your studio and said, “Here’s proof.” You said, “Of what, exactly?” I said, “That I believe in you.”