I wonder if I think of us in religious images
because I blame your God
(my God, our God, whose God)
for keeping us apart before we could begin.
I couldn’t find places of worship in your skin,
I couldn’t find them in the hard chapel pews.
They might be in the book you love,
That I struggle to make sense of
Because the words on the pages don’t match
The words in the sermon.
Between peace and impasse,
I’d pick the former if only it meant
Understanding where things went wrong.
Maybe loving you was sacrilegious.
Maybe the assurance that I was “good enough” That I was “worthy of love and loving”
Shouldn’t have made you bathe in holy water
And reread passages of your book
Looking for the answer to your prayers.
I couldn’t save you from self imposed damnation.
Your parents, your church, your faith.
I was never your salvation nor you mine.
But maybe I’ll pray for us,
Who we could have been and who we were
And hope that God still hears my prayers.