Bigfoot Crossing

When I was a kid, I believed
wholeheartedly in Jesus and Bigfoot.
I tasted Jesus in the bread I ate every Sunday,
which satisfied my faith in Him
and in my father’s assurances 
that all my sins could be washed away
as long as I never stopped believing
bread was not bread but flesh.
I wanted my father to believe with me
that Bigfoot was real, too,
not a man in a gorilla suit but a missing link.
I had the proof hanging on the wall
over my bed like an icon in the form
of the “Bigfoot Crossing” sign
park rangers posted on a road
curling up the side of Pike’s Peak.

But I doubt my father ever noticed anything
on the few occasions he entered my room—
not the crucifix with hidden Holy Water
compartment above my dresser,
or the Lincoln Log cabin I had built
to remind me of my dreams
of living off the land like Grizzly Adams
in some cloister of the Rocky Mountains,
or the G.I. Joe P.O.W. camp laid out
meticulously on the floor of my closet,
complete with tortured U.S. soldiers
missing fingers on their Kung Fu grip hands.
If I was lucky, he entered my room beltless
simply to give me his pair of scuffed penny loafers
to shine so I would know before I fell asleep
what it meant to walk a day in his shoes.

Kip Knott | New World Order
Contents | Mudlark No. 50 (2013)