My Sundays are for her:
delicate waking amidst white
sheets, gentle sunrises pouring light
over us like a showerhead,
and hearing her sleepy voice
whisper my name in love.
As a child, I always used to love
Sundays: my mother with her
apron on at the stove, saying with a gentle voice
that supper was ready - white
buttermilk biscuits, gravy showered overhead.
I remember how light
would come through church mosaics, lighting
poor souls with God’s grace and love,
how baptisms poured showerhead
forgiveness, and how my mother’s hand held mine, her
thumb thrumming mine, my knuckles white
from nerves. The preacher’s voice
still hangs in my ears, voicing
Leviticus - condemning, and lighting
me up with machine gun words, white
to pure, preaching and screaming that love
was for man and woman. And yet, her
heart is what I cradle, showerheading
a joyous hope through shared showers, our heads
and hearts and hands connected, voices
mumbling and harmonizing together, her
arms around me, her kisses sealing scars. Our light
conquers the church, our love
is our Word. Our veins used to turn white
from a pulsing white
fear, and our tears used to shower, heading
us toward innate sin through our love.
We may be left with hushed voices,
as we have strayed from the Light,
but all I care for is her.
Our love is white
from her whispers, our shared showers. We’re heading
to hell on a Sunday, our voices quiet and happy in their sinful light.