Member-only story
The Cross
A poem
Note: I’d like to start off by saying when I was first baptized at the age of 15, I knew what I was doing. I was afraid I’d drown and instead I remember one of the deacons saying, “This robe is drenched! It’s a whopper!” Somehow my robe absorbed so much of the water. Not sure what that means spiritually, but maybe I was soaked in God’s love? I was no angel afterwards, but the Son shined brightly in me…
The morning after baptism
you are cold, pressed like a
kiss between my breasts.
A burning ember set atop my heart
How can you be rose and gold
at the same time?
I remove you when I swear
When I hate, when I break bread
with the mockers
My voice is a fist
connecting with feisty
teeth, philandering folk and fake wokes —
I pray wildly
and dance a tribute to the angels
that hold me hostage in yellow dreams;
rebellious angels who sing —
And then
And then
When I am done with you kissing between
my breasts, I hide you amidst weeping whips
and…
