Church (South)

When my mother stops speaking like she’s spitting teeth, I will ask her why first-borns are always the sacrifice, prodigal done proper in a suit and tie. If I tell you my secrets will you cut off my hair to break down tandem temples. Will you break these bones in your teeth, will you tell your lies about my She, will you dismiss the dis-ease in my laboured breath. I am in your church, lying about needing this body sacrament like you asked. I am standing and sitting and kneeling and standing and sitting like a good girl does, mindful machinists behind pulpits tell me my sins. I follow the flow of heating bodies, no touching, down pews to aisles to lines to altar, The Body Of Christ: is a man so we say yes but he was only a man and eating magic potion humans and drinking blood in Catholic cannibalism was never my Sunday brunch. Yet I am here with my yes-man Amen so you do not have another reason to turn red.


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