Purgatory

I don’t go to church like I used to.

The tabernacle is locked and the pews are dusty

with the dead skin and hair follicles

of what I once was:

a saint in the making

turned sinner, turned dark.

I don’t go to church like I used to.

The priest has forgotten my face

glowing distinct with holiness,

revelation

turned apocalyptic.

The flame behind my eyes has gone out.

I don’t go to church like I used to.

My flesh is stuck to the world.

I’m addicted to a plant-based diet called Earth—

cannot swallow the meat of the Eucharist

without bitterness drying up my tongue

and hiding in the shallows of my throat.

I don’t go to church like I used to.

My grandmother would cry

if she knew how far I am

from Christ

right here, right now

kneeling on His black, icy tile.

I don’t pray like I used to.

I am too afraid to kiss

the rose-scented beads,

look God in the eyes

and scream,

I want you back.

featured in Sorin Oak Review