To speak up on Sunday
when religion strikes like
the back of a hand
would be a sin. To question
a written truth bound
by message and baggaged with
fear
would be unthinkable.
But I do! But I do!
I let those words of hymn drain
slow down my throat,
digesting each He and Him,
and I am not the same size
as my companions in these walls.
I am unworthy.
I am faithless in my tongue
because I cannot taste it.
But I do! But I do!
I am full of confession, I swallow them
like bone slivers after the fasting.
My prayer is splintered by
knees on the floor.
My Dear God, humble me more!
