When you’re old, don’t you dare
show up to church in some frumpy headscarf,
don’t bow low, don’t beg, “Father, bless me.”
Walk in *******, head held high,
rocking a deep V-neck like a boss,
fists clenched tight,
no folding them in prayer.
Sing it loud and proud:
“Lord, cut me some slack,
forgive my ex-husband—or don’t, whatever—
and spare some love to the ones
who really need it.”

When you’re old, storm into that church like you own the place,
kick the door open like a badass.
No sighing, no “Oh my God” nonsense.
God’s got your back—you’re good.
Who’s that guy up there on the pulpit, droning on?
The real boss of this church is a woman—
even if she’s old as dirt, even if
she’s rolling in on wheels.

Enough with the suffering, the hand-wringing,
the moping and groveling—since when is that a woman’s job?
Too much time’s passed to even keep track
of whatever sins you’re supposed to regret.
What did I even do wrong?
And what was the point of it all anyway?
Will forgetting lead me to hell?
If your memory’s shot, just read from a note
you scribbled beforehand:
“Lord, who gives a **** who I slept with back in the day.
That’s just how it had to go.
*******.”