Sue Fagalde Lick

If Jesus Came To My Door

I’d say, “Excuse the mess”
and He would. He might even
share the couch with the pit bull
and rub her balding belly
as she lies on her back, submissive,
which I probably ought to do, too,
but no, I’d be fixing my hair,
putting my laundry away,
offering Him coffee or tea,
and wondering if He was really He
or if I just let a bad guy in,
someone who would rape, rob, kill
or whip out a Kirby vacuum to sell.
But no, the guard dog’s upside down,
wide open to His blessed hands,
and she knows. She knows.



About That Overflowing Cup

Lord, you give me too much.
My plate overflows with good stuff
I really want to take in, but
you gave me a little stomach,
a touchy one at that, and
hemorrhoids, no, that wasn’t you,
or was it? You think ‘roids are funny?
Just never mind. I probably
free-willed myself into them
with all that cheese and ice cream
instead of vegetables and grains.
Anyway, too much, my cup
runneth over and I’m drowning.
Here’s the thing, God. I’ve got
24 hours in a day, eight
trying to sleep, two eating,
a couple more in the bathroom,
two watching “The Bachelorette,”
one going to church, eight
trying to work, at least one
driving, one walking the dog,
and with what’s left, I try to figure out
how to clean my filthy house,
mow the lawn, buy groceries,
pay bills and maybe someday even
take a vacation. Come on, Lord,
haven’t we finished paying you back
for Eve and the apple yet? I mean,
even my student loan from 2003
will be paid off one of these years.
I love you and all, you’re the boss,
please don’t smite me for attitude, but
I just thought you ought to know.



Morning Prayer

God, do you see me?
I’m the one on the wet deck
with a bad case of bedhead,
torn red fuzzy slippers
and a bathrobe stained with grapefruit juice.

Do you hear me muttering prayers,
praising the new sun fighting
its way through the bully clouds
to shine on salmonberry vines
about to sprout purple blossoms?

Do you find all these
“please watch overs” and “please
help me’s” tiresome as hell,
especially when I say them while
urging the dog to squat and pee?

Do you look down and think
how did creation result in this
old woman babbling on the deck?
Is that why the clouds are closing in
and sprinkling rain upon my head?

Dear God, I’m going to shut up now.
I know that you know everything.
You don’t need to hear my prayers.
Besides, the dog is standing at the door,
and my feet are getting wet. Amen.


Sue Fagalde Lick returned to poetry after a long detour in the newspaper business, and a better-late-than-never MFA at Antioch University Los Angeles. Her work has appeared in New Letters, Tenemos, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Windfall and other publications. Her books include Stories Grandma Never Told and Shoes Full of Sand. Sue and her dog live in South Beach on the Oregon coast. Visit her blog at