Bedside Baptist
When done right, the final
ringing run of Total Praise
flings my clay arms
so wide the sun could jump
straight through.
From my laptop, I watch
Fantasia put on a concert
in her living room. She draws
out that last Amen—
the note sucked pearl clean,
so full my chest grows thick
with water lilies.
I’m not fit for the Lord’s
house: crop top
bonnet, boy shorts.
Lust-drunk. Giddy
off my own perfume.
I last wore a slip
when we lived
at the church three nights
a week. Back then,
I shamed my mother
when I wore jeans. Refused
the baptismal pool. Fell
asleep in the back pews,
in the lap of a girl I was
too close to. I don’t miss
the thin rows of wood, their
stiff frowning faces.
At home, I am my own
priest. I offer my shrill
praise. Proud.
Loud. So rowdy,
He runs in
to see
about me.
