Samuel Dickerson

Low Tier God

After Ode to magic
– Bob Hicok 

Do the one where you bring yourself 
back from the dead, his father, the preacher, commanded, 
but his son could not. It seemed  

the lord had done it again, the preacher’s 
wife bearing a miracle. But the preacher knew 

she was not a virgin. She must have  
cheated, he would say, I am not God. Devout and cynical  
are closer than you think. The boy 

was born like other boys, a c-section 
in a hospital bed. No manger, no magi, no elephant, 
camel or horse, because he was not supposed to be 

faith, not supposed to save or be crucified. Coincidence 
his father realized; no real God ever existed.  

Do the one where you turn water  
into wine, he demanded of his teenage son, but could 
not. His father’s arms raised 

in defeat. He did the one where he lifted the Volkswagen 
in their driveway and twirled it pensively. His mother 

watching, somber, wishing it was not her, innocent 
but persecuted. If anything, she believed 
now, more than her husband ever had 

there must be a reason for this, for him, 
for his father to test the strength of his own son’s skin 

with bullets. Maybe this is just a poem, his mother 
said. Again, this is just a poem. The father shoots 

a few more times, chest, eyes, to see how  
indestructible he really is. The boy is not hurt 
as long as the poem is not hurt. His mother is 

watching again, desperate for the gun to turn to her  
or his father, for her boy to use his gift against 

skin, against flesh and life. When 
someone is hurt in a poem, you can go back 
to when they weren’t. The boy is hurt  

and his mother begs him, do the one 
where you fix it, where you become normal 
or kill your father or use your power to change  
his mind. But that one is not this one, the boy 
says, staring at their knelt bodies on the concrete 

floor of the garage. He picks up their Volvo 
with one hand, opens the door  
with the other, sets the Volvo down  
next to the Volkswagen, runs faster into 
the evening than either of those  
will ever go. 

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Samuel Dickerson is a student at Salisbury University majoring in English with a concentration in Creative Writing and Computer Science with a concentration in AI. He works at his university's Nationally Competitive Fellowship Office, is an assistant editor for his school's literary magazine, the Scarab, and is an intern at 149 Review. He grew up in Chesapeake City, MD.