I think of our Protestant Easter eggs and the verses you carefully painted on each of your delicately dyed eggs with your foot touching mine.
Rough hands against my then-small hips in the empty sunday school room, your poverty and alcoholism on my lips rumored to be stolen.
Fite, fight, cease the stutter, tell me your thoughts on lama sabachthani. Tell me why just one more time. My bruised inner elbows aren't to blame--it's Luke 2:19.
I fucked in your church.
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"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"
ReplyDeleteI feel that this entire poem can be summed up in Matthew 27:45-46.
Sorry, that was me, Maus, but it signed me in using my mother's account. I don't know why. This is why the Internet and I are not friends.
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