Scripted Devotion

The air is thick with incense (as it always is);  

I could cut it with the crisp dollar bill, my tithe. 

I’m handed my prop (an unlit candle), and head to my mark. 

There is no applause, 

as I light the wick and bury it in His sandbox. 

But I can see the glittering teeth 

of my family in the audience. 

The eyes of other men and women, 

dressed in fine linens and shined shoes, 

track my careful Christian steps. 

Every week, I worry the flame will fall,  

light the red carpets of my stage. 

The crowd will rage 

and scream, and surely 

God will come down to strike me in His glory. 

Over and over, every Sunday, I act my part  

in this church on Alhambra Boulevard. 

Every Sunday, I kneel on our benches, 

and pretend I am Mary Magdalene, 

Deborah, Susanna, Eve. 

With my skirt dripping to the floor 

and my tights hoisted up high, 

I am God’s child. 

But if they were to strip these skirts, 

rip away my tights, 

oh how they would weep. 

Oh how this stage might crumble, 

and the scriptures tear, 

and they would pray for an end 

to this play turned 

Rapture. 

Oh how they would wish, 

I was Mary Magdalene. 

But for now, 

when I sit in His pews (quiet and good), 

I pretend to tilt my head 

in condemnation of others like me. 

I recite my script, 

like the sweet nothings I whispered, 

into her ear on Saturday night. 

I smile at the colored stage lights 

of the bright stained glass, 

and remember her red, candied lips, 

that traced along my own. 

And I stroke the crucifix that hangs 

like an anchor around my neck. 

I am slow and righteous when I walk down the aisle, 

in preparation for His body and blood. 

While it will not be as tasty as hers (lust-filled and tender), 

I do not choke, 

I do not grimace, 

because it is the climax of this tragic comedy 

(and the show must go on). 

It seems so long ago when I was first betrothed 

to this role. 

Married off to the old liturgy and 

an altar that does not allow my entrance. 

All I know now, is that it doesn’t feel very 

make-believe, 

as the communion burns my throat, 

and the icons cast me a sinister glance. 

And maybe I have found a way, 

for this stage make-up to mask a true face, 

and the blinds to cover my life backstage, 

but when shall I retire from this theater? 

When will be the day, 

that the curtains fall 

and bring my crowd to their knees?  

When will I freeze in the spotlight, 

caught in an act so shameful 

(with our legs and lips entangled in sin), 

that Mother Mary herself may cry? 

When shall this House of God 

tremble with their jeers? 

I cannot pray for another family, 

(I will not pray at all) 

and there is no ritual to undo 

the hatred they bear toward 

my kind of love

(or my need for their love). 

So when will our Lord allow this to be, 

my final act? 

Nevertheless,

this Sunday showing is like any other. 

Tickets have sold out, and I can feel the stage lights, 

burning my soft skin. 

Once the show has ended (and I have given my bows), 

it will be time for the next act, 

next showing, 

next life.