Past Perfect 

 

When the bad stuff had come

to our bedside, had finally crawled

into our night dreams-

it felt like that rare moment

when you dangle over the world in a plane.

When you realize that maybe you had cheated,

had not chosen to give what was needed-

When the plane shakes in its cheap tin canister

and you’re no better than a bean, high off the ground-

And when you had come to see yourself that naked,

the ways you pushed them away-

Your worried conscience strikes

unmoored from its foundation.

Then you might at last be redeemed.

And come to see the gift of it-

Without the church, without a priest. 

You might even thank God

He had nothing to do with it-

that he had fallen out of the sky.

​

Copyright 2025 Jill Uchiyama