The preacher preached of suicide;
stories of loss.
The congregation on edges of velvet cushioned pews
wide eyed, fearful.
I sit silently repressing a subtle smile.
The preacher's eyes are wonderful,
beaming bright like a pregnant moon.
He knows nothing of what's under my dress,
the red underwear
and the darkening line below my navel.
He smiles.
Maybe he does know.
In the midst of overfed Jesus lovers,
I reach for their god with shaking fingers,
my sins crying out to the mass.
My eyes lock on the man in the pulpit;
the inflection of his voice,
the trembling of his hands,
the look in his eyes.
And now I know why
I wore a g-string to church.
YOU ARE READING
I Wore A G-string To Church
PoetryA racy poem I wrote for an 11th grade Lit assignment. My teacher loved it and still to this day asks me to read it to his younger classes.
