by Frances Raybaud
this is what i’m told to worship
a thirty three year old man who died nailed to a cross
and a ghost i’ve never seen
and yet another father who only seems to disappoint
this is what i worship:
your skin, soft like the sky after rain
your mouth, which so often tastes like me
your laugh
here is what you worship:
nothing.
your walls have crumbled down and i am always on my knees,
begging.
