At first, no one heard the gunmen.
Sixty voices seesawed in the song
of tongues. Sixty bodies gripped 

scalps, collars, the lean pile
of industrial carpet. Praising
the Lord is hard work. But that night 

I lived at home. Safe. A mark
against my faith, according to Jin.
Age twelve and an authority over me. 

By estimation the church coffers
lost thousands that night. My
mother surrendered her wedding ring. 

Jin reported, “They almost made
your mom strip. To find more.
But she was crying so hard they 

pitied her.” Jin had been there,
and today, in the children’s room,
where we perched between a play

kitchen and changing station,
she claimed her faith ran clearer,
deeper than any grown-up’s. That

I should have been there. That
my mother should have offered
me up to the gunmen and with 

a bright, firm face, declared, “Lord,
have your way.”