alternatively titled: using religious imagery ad nauseam as a means of coping with Christian-based internalized homophobia
It's hardest to keep my vision straight at
Church; maybe this is a natural bleeding out: my body rejecting what I am not
i see the altar and the altar is asymmetrical
and the designs on Father's stole are alternating in a capricious pattern of slants and squiggles and unfinisheds, off-tangents
and the cantor's voice sinks into the church basement just as frequently as it glides over the crucifix and chimney
cracks and splinters like an egg on the bridge
the Body of Christ is red and the wine white and the pew looks just like my skin
who moonlights as a prison and in daytime a holding cell
and the lock is sealed shut and the key sharp as a spoon
and prayers rise in the dough of a cake i haven't the tongue to taste yet
and to hold hands with woman is to three-step waltz with the devil so i cut my right and left one off too
and bury them in the closet. and i'm certain by Father's closing remarks
having washed the brown out of my eye with holy water and stuffed it dry with missalete pages
i should finally see with the common man's sight
And yet – i mistake a rosary for a necklace, which itches
And walk the earth with somebody's mother's emblem tied to my neck like a stolen heirloom
leave as a criminal, sanctified, sanctification
