Accidental Mystic

Once I picnicked with an atheist 
(only one in Davis County?), 
spread our gourmet bounty 
on a blanket where we lay, 
a grassy bank beside a stream. Trick 
was to appear to be agnostic, 
to encourage her to dream 
out loud—express her awe 
for innocence of animals, 
auditory mystery of bees. 
And all the while—all the while— 
a beam of sunlight through the trees 
revealed the gorgeous dialectic 
of a skeptic’s smile. Reflecting now 
on ecstasy (vouchsafed for angels, 
saints, and the elect?) vexed to recollect 
her leaving unreturned the novel 
I had lent her. Complexity and doubt— 

pleased or burned it sent her to the arms 
of Cowboy Jesus? Too easy to forget 
the link between the way I learned 
to think, and drinking in 
the paradox—attracted to a few 
who call themselves free-thinkers. 
Nat Hentoff flat refused to off 
a fellow creature—wouldn’t wink 
at killing, if in war, the womb, 
the execution room. Take care 
to still adore the late Tom Lehrer— 
“make a cross on on your abdomen, 
when in Rome do as a Roman,” 
Thomas sang. But it was 
a she, accidental mystic, 
characteristic of her kind, 
who led me to lie down 
and stare unblinking into heaven.