Faith – a poem by Monica Mills


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 othersShe enjoys rainy days and ginger tea. 

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