Kiss me in the church of Heaven, where deities fashion the faiths of humankind. My ruby heart now cracked in angel wings is melting on the lips of God. I am baptised in the sublime lips of divine wedding. My Lord, open the temple of Your abode and keep me from harm like jewels which are only found in Heavens. Sweet wine is poured on the edges of my hips; rose petals cry in the moon tapping.

She worships you. Your sinful indulgence and all.
She laps up your grey blood
and nourishes her flab on your staleness.
On her weaknesses and confessions you elevate yourself.
Higher.
The altar cracks.
She darts to heel your splinter but her limbs are broken under the collapse.
Upset at her lack of agency and engrossed in prayer she drowns herself in her own tears unknowingly.
In the end your ***** amassed.
An unexpected end to a story of fatherly shepherding.
See not every story has a Noah and his Arc,
most end with the egotistical on the altar, and the saints martyred in the gutter.
Sacrifice is still bloodshed.

When we went to church
my grandma used to say
"Pray for the one next to you,
ask for his prayers to come true"

"But, grandma" I once asked her
"Why can't we ask for things for ourselves?"

"Because that's what prayer should be,"
she answered graciously
"ask for the safety of others,
for them to get home safe,
for them to never be hungry,
ask for God to love all of his children.

We can get by,
but you never know if others can too."

its dark and muddy
I’ve always liked the sun
its dark and muddy
unforgiving weather
Each step however difficult is a tribute to you
you’re always in the corners of each room
not an afterthought, but often mentioned at the end
I fear the end
I envy those who take solace in echoing rooms of stained glass
I envy their lord
while I try to remember you
they try to summon strength
they succeed, I do not

this is what comes next,
we have learned
to wait for
this.

The choir concludes the service

We are eyes closed, air drawn to hands raised.

They sing because they happy

back in church

With bodies

always with bodies

Someone is screaming, tongue defying hymn

And yes, how far away we are

I miss him too.

His voice always singing familiar

haunts trumpet blaring

Sunday mornings.

Dark eyes and skin, wide smile, no teeth.

Fearless at 5 singing gospels with no concept of holding tight to strength in the lyrics. My ancestors and their ancestors. Am I listening?

I lose myself in years. I am not

Singing anymore. These chords have twisted themselves into the back of songs, I am

Writing, not singing or speaking.

Cottonmouth. I am sitting staunch against pews, leaning into worn piano keys. Foundation stains, and eyes watching, chestnut brown like mine. G in the key that breaks into silence. I hear a hymn being hummed, bacon cooked and waiting.

Memory tells me it is time to open my mouth

I sing 'cause I’m free.

I basked in the joy of the chord
In the vibrations of the perfection
Of harmonies that reverberated to my core
That sang deep to my soul

Those notes were familiar
The dynamics lowered and lifted
Me through the air in the lofted church
Ceiling and stained glass reflections

As my daughter sang from the mass of robes
I remembered singing from that same stage
On that same white marble stage where
I stood with my mom so many years ago

A smile and a tear leapt up from my heart
As I remember those chords with my mom
So happy she was to be looking down
At her granddaughter singing so sweet

Her red lips like the roses of a cracking stained glass window
When she leaned in to whisper her secret
The words falling from them like demons through a gate
Into a crumbling church

Into my ear

I had sat in those pews
With zealous eyes and thoughts upon those lip-red roses
But one by one her demons came like whispers
And cracked the red stained window like a breaking heart

I've put you to sleep with a song,
And you sleep like a rarity,
Lying deep in a treasure chest,
Veiled by the lure of ample gold.

And my lullaby continues,
Yes, much like a prayer it does,
In a mellow light pouring in,
From the stained glass that your church boasts.

But as my voice grows fragile,
This lullaby might go quiet;
Insnity might condemn me,
To deem you dead, to deem love gone.

And thus, I must wait and see,
If you'd remember what I said,
"Lest I should ever think love dead,
Wake up and say, 'It's not, it's not'."