Is the rush I feel in my wound-licked soul
the holy spirit or just abused, rusty
fans behind the pews, working overtime to keep
cool amid summer heat, derived
from impending fire and brimstone?
The pastor holds up a bible
and says, HE is joining us
HE is here, manifest.
Repent, and raise those hands!
The emperor with no clothes felt
more clothed than me right then,
the roof removed from my sin-riddled
self, marred and twisted by judgment
casket blown open, a seal broken
standing face to face
or a rusty fan.