Abracadabra

The missionaries stay in an old apartment. 
The shades are yellow as runny yolk. 
The afternoon sun is beating to get in. 

When I help them practice teaching, they 
call me little Mister Brown, like in the book 
they’ve brought from Salt Lake. They fold out 

the flannelboard like a square umbrella 
and set it on its side. As they rehearse 
their dialogue, they stick to the black flannel 

colored cutouts they pretend to pull from my ear.
One cutout, a business man in blue suit and short-
brimmed hat, they set at the top and call God. 

Surprised, I ask who’s His Daddy—and His Daddy:
who’s the God of God? They say, Have faith.