I met God in a strip mall bowling alley,where the clouds had lined up like a congregationin the sky over the bump & tumble ofabandoned road & the children told meJesus was born on the back of a hot bus. Imet him through my Polish grandmaas she pressed dolls the size of my thumbinto my hand & my mother wouldn’t see.When Jesus forgot to pick me up from balletpractice & I waited & cried on a rough green couchI blamed the Christmas Eve candles thatwound the light into cylinders like Grandma’shair curlers. Instead of apologies she taughtme how to remember the color red & insteadof forgiveness I learned to count the beads ona rosary. When she took me for the firsttime to that bowling alley with the kids & the cloudsshe told me this was my mother’s land,to soak the sky like a cloth & dye it virgin blue.