silver suggestion

so i drink what is bad for me,

and my body says “do not poison the body of Christ”

and i eat what is bad for me,

and my body says “do not poison the body of Christ”

ii. you doubt Christ first when you're sitting in a pew in your sunday dress and you hear that He knows everything. But your momma says Christ doesn't sin (not like you, you and your Body), and if He doesn't sin then there's some things you know that He doesn't. you and all your Bad, you know what it's like to look at her like that, what it's like to hold your Self at gunpoint, what it's like to teach yourself to look away, and you reckon even Christ doesn't know as much as you've had to learn to survive.

iii. the pastor says in church that angels are everywhere, watching, waiting to catch you being Bad, and the whole week after that you're too scared to meet her eyes, 'cause you know the angels are watching you. (and you're good, you are, you're making yourself be better, you're learning not to stare, you're

iv. you drink, and are drunk, and it's Christ's Body that hands your phone over to someone sober enough to keep you from making drunk calls, from saying something stupid with Christ's Mouth, something like I think I might be gay, oh god,

v. they spend your whole life telling you that you were made in the image of God - and then you understand what Holy is for the first time, and you find it not at the altar, but in her laughter.

vi. And he took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, "This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me."

eld and newly woken gods rage;

he tore and burnt through the country,

rending limbs, and burning crops.

all the kings men, and all the kings horses,

fell before his righteous, jiterring fury;

and so hell bent, he destroyed farm after farm.

until he came upon a farm, seemingly already destroyed;

except for the rosary trees and lilac bush,

and the small farmer smiling and sobbing,

one eld and knobbled knee;

he squinted the eyes that had seen the world wrought,

and peered curiously at the farmer.

(gasoline hands shook, backlit by a farm ablaze)

through tears and laughter, the small man sang,

sang up into the righteous, jittering fury,

"clever men can't be robbed

if they steal from themselves!

clever men cannot cry,

who have swallowed their sadness whole!

you thought you were to ruin me,

and you may be Eld and Wise,

but I,

you’re eight and your best friend is teaching you how to whistle with a blade of grass. you watch her, hands cupped together, knuckes kissed green and brown by the earth, eyes bright and amber-brown in the sunlight - and are struck by the need to hold perfectly still, to take hold of the moment and stuff it in your pocket for later. you look at her, and in the moment she makes you not want to forget.

II. FAN BLADE

you’re ten and staring up at the ceiling fan of a church sanctuary while the man up front tells you about gays. about how girls should love boys and boys should love girls. about sin and consequence. he seems to know a lot, about these things. the blades of the ceiling fan tell you about all the things you’d rather be doing than listening to him.

III. ROLLERBLADE

you’re twelve and you’ve misplaced her at the roller rink. surely your best friend wouldn’t have left you alone on purpose. you’re good at rollerskating, your dad taught you when you were seven, and it felt as close to flying as your awkward limbs were ever going to manage, so you just never stopped. when you find her with her back turned to you and her arms around the neck of some boy you’ve never met, you screech to a halt and think: ‘oh.’ and when you think about it later your fingernails will bite into your palms with. (jealousy except it can’t be that because what on earth do you have to be jealous over)

IV. RAZORBLADE

you’re fourteen and the rumors cling to you like cobwebs, without reprieve. you can’t bring yourself to confront her but you know she’s the one spreading them. weird fucking dyke, stares too long. acts like such a queer. the desperate hope that she’s wrong writes itself in crosshatched red script across your thighs, your hips, your stomach. the scar heals ugly and white on the inside of your right leg: D-Y-K-E.

V. SHOULDERBLADE

you’re fifteen and you’re staring again. it tears you up, the way you feel like you could live in the hollow where her shoulderblades meet her back. are you allowed? you ask the streets one night. is it allowed, feeling this way? you hear no answer, so you listen to the cars pass and you make up your own answer, wrap it around you like a quilt.

VI. SWITCHBLADE

like an old friend,

and its molten voice promises peace,

that it would pull the loam up,

up and over me like a duvet,

ex-lover still attached,

and her slurred speech promises peace,

that she alone can take away

the nightmares and the rot I breathe,

i walked the world for you,

and then some more for myself,

and i wore them through.

im sick of the bloody toes,

i held my hopes for you,

and then some more for myself,

and my grasp shakes and fails.

now it all has slipped through my fingers,

a burning pain,

a pounding pain,

on the marble floors,

the poor acolyte,

a pained god's reign,

a weary reign,

at the end of the sky,

the poor spent god,

you're eight and your best friend is teaching you how to whistle with a blade of grass. you watch her, hands cupped together, knuckes kissed green and brown by the earth, eyes bright and amber-brown in the sunlight - and are struck by the need to hold perfectly still, to take hold of the moment and stuff it in your pocket for later. you look at her, and in the moment she makes you not want to forget.

II. FAN BLADE

you're ten and staring up at the ceiling fan of a church sanctuary while the man up front tells you about gays. about how girls should love boys and boys should love girls. about sin and consequence. he seems to know a lot, about these things. the blades of the ceiling fan tell you about all the things you'd rather be doing than listening to him.

III. ROLLERBLADE

you're twelve and you've misplaced her at the roller rink. surely your best friend wouldn't have left you alone on purpose. you're good at rollerskating, your dad taught you when you were seven, and it felt as close to flying as your awkward limbs were ever going to manage, so you just never stopped. when you find her with her back turned to you and her arms around the neck of some boy you've never met, you screech to a halt and think: 'oh.' and when you think about it later your fingernails will bite into your palms with. (jealousy except it can't be that because what on earth do you have to be jealous over)

IV. RAZORBLADE

you're fourteen and the rumors cling to you like cobwebs, without reprieve. you can't bring yourself to confront her but you know she's the one spreading them. weird fucking dyke, stares too long. acts like such a queer. the desperate hope that she's wrong writes itself in crosshatched red script across your thighs, your hips, your stomach. the scar heals ugly and white on the inside of your right leg: D-Y-K-E.

V. SHOULDERBLADE

you're fifteen and you're staring again. it tears you up, the way you feel like you could live in the hollow where her shoulderblades meet her back. are you allowed? you ask the streets one night. is it allowed, feeling this way? you hear no answer, so you listen to the cars pass and you make up your own answer, wrap it around you like a quilt.

VI. SWITCHBLADE