“Please, little one, take the first pat of butter and the first spoon of jam. Take the finest pair of slippers and the very largest clot of cream. Take up the choicest grasses and the clearest water to keep for yourself. And the dandelions. And the runt of every litter. Take down the farthest star and pop it into your mouth every night. When morning comes, I will fly into your room and place a living coal on your tongue and you will become orange–every bone and nerve and memory etched with fire. You will burn and in the burning you will be refined. This is why the girl in the window wants you back. This is why God did not flip open the lid of the old white house. This is why your left hemisphere is trapped, like a bird beating its white wings against the great coop of heaven. Take up the cross, wee mountain of flames. Something good will come of it.”
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Why God Did Not Flip Open the Little White House
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godlikepoet
April 3, 2024
Last updated on May 12, 2024
Rebecca Cook lives in Chattanooga, TN. She grew up in North Georgia on a farm in Wood Station. She is a writer and visual artist, a writing teacher, an editor, and she has been known to preach in her local church, Grace Episcopal. She is a mom, a wife, and a homemaker/cook at present as she no longer works outside the home. She took her MA in English Literature (UTC), her MA in Rhetoric and Writing (UTC), and MFA in Creative Writing,--poetry, creative nonfiction, (Vermont College). She has published prose and poetry widely across the internet and in print magazines and journals.
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