by Jill Lange
I.
Today, Carol stopped by to tell me
Jerry Falwell died.
Carol is middle aged, a competent lawyer.
She tells good jokes.
I wait for the punch line. She smiles,
“No, really, he died.”
I say, “I don’t like Jerry Falwell, what
do I say now?”
She says, “Me neither. But it’s true.”
And she leaves.
II.
It’s supposed to rain tonight, maybe
even a storm. I’m on the upstairs porch
drinking wine, watching white lilacs
and wind chimes dance in the breeze.
Jerry Falwell blows in. Why? I hold my glass,
hear myself say, “Here’s to you, Jerry Falwell!”
Why? He has that smirk. He’s up in heaven.
But I won’t see him again. No way.
Feminists, ACLU card carriers, Democrats, Jews,
Buddhists, pagans, gays, and immigrant
peace activists ... we don’t go there.
We’ll be somewhere else, no doubt telling
stories with Mark Twain and Chief Seattle.
Jill Lange is an attorney, poet, and activist in most of the ways that have inspired Jerry Falwell's sermons.
