Faith this is how we worship when the cross is an oxygen tank chained to our backs at birth. we starve for the setting sun and communion is had on unholy days. crucifixions come cradled as scent of blood-red wine after decades of drought. we drink deeply. we die of thirst. our New Testament descends as the oldest myth in life’s album of make-believe moments. see it run from what was burned. see the bruise become a scar. we at the pulpit are Cain. our crops converge into swarms of locusts. we in the pews are Abel and sit, sobbing like newborns for warmth we cannot remember. this is the cuter damnation. the pretty one who ties her hair in bantu knots and laughs as the shackles are tightened.
Monica Mills is a Jamaican-American writer and poet. She is from Maplewood, New Jersey and has a bachelor’s degree in political science and English from Rutgers University. Monica’s recent work appears in journals such as West Trade Review, Anthologist, and New Verse News among others. She enjoys rainy days and ginger tea.