Your mother smacks you with her Bible.
Read it. You will take up motion
Knowing you’ll have no pardon, unlike
The sister who married another woman
And became minister.

Wormwood. Lukewarm.
He can spew you out, take you or leave you.

Womb. Home. Tomb. Bone.
Only tonguewise can you make a rhythm.

You are no Bible-thumper. Milk and honey
Don’t flutter from the lips, contemplating
Dead Jews rising in threadbare burial-shrouds,
Brackish-rotten in midnight breeze.
He has come. He has come. He has come.

Put that trash aside.
Open a window. Open a vein. Even better.
There are sermons in the voices of the wind

And we leaves
Tremble in the resurrection of it.

Cassidy Street is a teacher and librarian’s assistant from Falkner, MS. His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Five on the Fifth, Indigo Lit and Scarlet Leaf Review. This is his debut appearance in poetry.

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