Kent Leatham

Dane Cervine

Testify

Diane and I walked down the dirt roadside

after high school one day in Atwater,

carrying a stack of Jesus People newspapers.

She had the full-rounded breasts adolescent boys worship,

as though remembering in blood vessel & bone

the Great Goddess, figurines buried across Europe

an eon before Jesus bled on wood. I was shy,

awkward, believed in Jesus with all my heart,

but couldn’t easily proselytize, attempts to sway the wayward

turning my tongue to dust. But I knew Diane

would think me brave if I did, so offered a crisp sheath

to a boy walking the other way, then another paper

to a couple, and another still—and by the time we arrived

at her house, she paused, invited me in for ice tea & ping pong.

I was elated, elevated, not sure if it was the hem

of Jesus’ robe I held, or the Great Mother’s—

the look in her eyes, the curve and undulation of breast

as she swung her paddle, the shy laugh, inviting me

to be the man I’d dared believe in on the road,

the one who would stand for something,

the one who would testify his heart.