He used to choke on Cottonwood seeds,
the sweet smell of wild roses,
strong female voices,
and perceived insults in dreams,
but never on his own bitter words —
that acidic response to
the odd, queer, gaudy, perverse —
probably never on the dry, brittle body of Christ
from whom he now finds absolution
that never requires atonement,
only tithes
and tethers to rank ideas
and pungent, noble hatred.
Poem ©2024 Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
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