by Prezzley Buckhannon
you bathe in teaspoons of spit
from flesh that followed you and raised you.
we haven’t met.
light filters in through stained glass. lands on you
displayed on the cross to ogle, mounted
before the congregation like a prized taxidermy face
drawn at the worlds’ ache
and my pulse throbs in your wake.
silent tears wet cheeks as I rub my wrists
together, an awkward tick.
how did you carry the burdens so gracefully?
let them ask forgiveness when they chose to lie
let him lay next to me with exposed sins
and touch me.
your ribs are showing. is that a front or
were you truly heaving spasms of pain from lost meals?
pelvis so dominant it draws the eye down.
repentance washing off you in waves
is even a crumb your own?
why does hope fall like dying flies to my feet and
their arms restrain me to stay idle and pretty?
you advertise the perfect reclamation but where are you now?
you who asserts divinity is a strong God
but I am a woman.
Prezzley Buckhannon is an avid reader and writer. She has been published in a Wingless Dreamer poetry anthology and is currently working on her first portal fantasy novel. She lives in West Virginia with her three-year-old toddler, Aurora.