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In Church with Branded Knees

Posted by A Gathering Of The Tribes in Poetry

by Ayshia Stephenson
I don’t want him to tear my clothing off anymore. I don’t want him to crush my serenity
into this tiny spit of a paper ball, pit stuck in my throat, like it sits in a child who can not
say: please get it out. Branded knees need a buffer from a pebbled surface. Can I stop
this? My voice echoes throughout the room and seems to become louder, as the
restraining order blows around knowing it came to watch dust grow on useless pews. My
eyes slide shut and the bible in my hand haunts me – takes up face of the man who I
never thought would stand at the church door, to give out pamphlets on my secrets. The
sunlight paints as it passes through windowed blues and reds and purples to land against
hairs old and newborn, still upper back of my neck. Nobody’s all bad. So was it my
imagination? For maybe my travel has maddened my memories to make things look
messy. I’m two tolls, two states, and too much fresh air away from him – but still gasping
for the repaired mobility of my movement. Here to communicate lines cut off from a
mess of leaky circulation. Now where from when wine went unconsumed, it’s a pity I
still want to taste it. When misery splatters, you can never clean it up. Crevices of grapes
nurtured to death smell up my shack. It’s a brown paper bag turned inside out.

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