From the Grave to the Sky

I would pray with my hands pressed between my thighs. I would block out the pastor’s words and speak to the empty space behind my eyes. I would search for a hand in the dark. I would roam across the inside of my skull, groping. I would keep my eyes closed during the praise skit trying to ignore the homophobic overtones and I would ask God questions. I would sit with the silence and feel humbled and punished. I would say thank you. I would say I do not deserve your answer or your love. I would feel my heart swell and seep with humility and penance. I would go up to the altar and rest my knees on the pillowed benches. I’d wait for their hands and try not to run. Penance. I would feel the word gauntlet, like these tongues are those of imps and iniquities pulling me to oblivion [not to hell, but the unanswerable].  I would try not to run. I would look around and note bodies splayed out—Sunday dress—diabetic stockings—lace front wig. Tears in all our eyes while they touch our foreheads with oil. Pastor would say the doors of the church are open and it’s like an escape route. And if that would be a hint of hell, this would be a beam of light. The doors of the church are open and I would be small and clean from now until tonight.

[From 'Come Join the Jubilee']