Suddenly Adult

Andrew Hudgins

When I was young, God,
young too, angered
smartly at my disregard
and could not be guyed
to ungrave chuckles. He glared,
and his glaring lingered
till I, glowering, glowed
like a fanned gleed
(the image retrograde,
but so are self and God,
aren’t we?). I malingered
in innocence, and swaggered
its dancehalls, fingered
an effeminate and beleaguered
moustache, pink snigger
squirming on lips sugared
with purity. God and I tangoed
until we staggered
to a sickened clinch, glued
together with sweat, haggard
and suddenly adult.
            As we’ve grayed
and grown obliging, each gored
to tact by the other’s butterfingered
corrections, we’ve agreed,
God and I, to safeguard
whatever is left to safeguard
of the other.
        O good
Father Hopkins, a goad
unto this laggard,
and better Herbert, a guide
I dream of following, I am glad,
and so, I think, is God,
to let the Lord’s assumption glide.

Andrew Hudgins is a professor of English at Ohio State University. His most recent book is Ecstatic in the Poison (Overlook, 2003), and he has a book of quasi-light verse, Shut Up, You’re Fine! Troubling Poems for Troubled Children, coming out with Overlook next year. 

“Suddenly Adult” appears in our Spring 2009 issue.