November 8, 2021Hymn for the Damned
I learnt my hymns with my alphabets,
I learnt that gods are supposed to save me.
My grandmother told me gods are powerful;
you won’t be able to look them in the eye
if you ever saw one.
She said kneel in front of yours
and close your eyes,
leave everything up to him,
and that’s how the sun sets on the toughest of days.
When I came out to her,
she started praying fervently
the same way she did
when my parents told her they’d be separating,
She said what she told my mother when she was packing her bags,
Only God can save you.
Love has four letters,
and so does Pray,
and if I were damned doing one
and saved by the other,
I’d rather love my god,
and get over with it at once.
My boy looks like her blue god,
and he forces me to look in his eyes.
Every night I kneel in front of him,
and my hands and mouth pray.
My grandmother has her god built in stone,
and her idea of purity is written in rigid letters
all over her existence.
Mine is built of the first of the ocean waves
and a third of the warmth on May mornings.
But on some days,
when we lay down together
and my childhood covers us like a blanket,
I feel a sudden stillness to myself,
and my chest opens up and I look for answers,
but I don’t remember the questions,
just the general unease they always leave behind.
from #73 – Fall 2021