After dropping acid, Danny danced all night
by himself in the corner of the dining room.
He was there when we went to bed
and when we woke. “I understand it all,”
he said, before collapsing on the couch.
“Everything! I’ve written it down,”
and he had.
He had scribbled revelations
on paper scraps, receipts, bills, the tablecloth.
None of it was legible.
No one liked Danny.
He was overweight and socially awkward.
I don’t know where he got the acid or
if someone slipped it to him as a joke,
but that night gave people something
else to mock him about.
Except for me.
I was jealous. By then I was a veteran
of Bible retreats and religious schools,
and I recognized the beatific when I saw it.
That it came from drugs made no difference;
a tab was a trigger, not a cause. God works
in mysterious ways,
but why Danny? Why
give him such a glimpse?
to Danny years afterwards – and I don’t know
which is yet another failure – he could say,
“Once I danced literally all night long. Once
I understood the workings of the universe.”
How many of us can say that, even for a moment,
we’ve felt things make sense? How many of us