The family was a scatterplot
through which I drew a trending line
that pointed toward an origin
that I called God. But it was not
an unambiguous dataset.
What the hell was a “third cousin”?
I’d met one at that year’s reunion.
We’d watched the Olympics and got wet
scoring each other’s cannonballs
into the Hilton’s peopled pool.
I plotted his coordinates
next to a friend from middle school
who met me in the bathroom stalls,
where we ignored each other’s zits.
The family watched a VHS
in which James Dobson rapped with teens.
He cracked some jokes. He wore blue jeans
and doffed his hat to horniness.
His wife and he had intercourse
three times a week. [Audible groans.]