Churches

You were the most shallow person in the church
as we prayed, and after services the preacher approached
and proclaimed  you had a good heart, that everyone did,
but assured us that you were already damned.

Suddenly, as if realizing his position he one-eighties,
contradicts himself and declares like a street preacher
that it's never too late to be saved
and I wonder what you'd have to do;
I wonder how much of yourself you would have to give up and
I wonder if priests lie.

The sunlight veers across the stained glass,
spitting light in your face at an eighty-two degree angle as you say,
"sorry kiddo, i don't want to be saved."
I wonder what your punishment will be for talking down to a priest,
or for wearing chucks to church, or for attempting suicide,
that night in the stream four months ago; you never told a soul,
but I was frozen to an oak twenty yards from the reeds
and something stopped me from screaming,
instead I almost leapt in the water after you,
instead I almost cried,
instead I stuffed hair into my mouth to keep my teeth from chattering
as the ambulances arrived and the paramedics saved yet another person
who didn't want any help.

I wonder if God will ask what you did wrong and what you'll say.
you'll probably think about sex and drugs and then decide to be poetic,
perhaps, "first I loved too viciously and too vicariously,
and then I couldn't love at all.
So I hurt."
I wonder what you're thinking the night after church as you guzzle whiskey
and touch girls, whisper sweet nothings into the neck of the bottle,
and why you look at me then, your eyes so full of hunger and hate and longing,
but no longer expecting me to save you.

"It isn't too late for you," I affirm, and just like the priest,
I know I am lying.
"You can still be saved," I attempt to convince myself through gritted teeth,
dressing the part of your angel, smiling
and wearing so much white; a satin dress, pearls, and evening gloves.

"Honey, I'd love to see you try," you drawl,
your teeth catching my neck, the big bad wolf.
I push you away but you keep pulling me close,
smelling like alcohol, like other girls
and prostitutes, their skin wrung with desperation,
but yours, with indifference;
the two scents mingle until it is impossible to breathe--
and I truly believe that there is no good left in you.