To Church
There was a time
I didn’t dread going to church.
The carpet would dot my knees
with peaks and valleys,
unnoticed vexations of genuflection
left until the service’s conclusion,
testaments to my concentration’s depth.
Then I would explore the irritated indents,
pocked flesh piles of dried currants,
with the pad of my pointer finger.
But in the service my head would bow,
the tiny bones in my neck protruding
like the ridges of a dinosaur.
The crayon in my hand a swirling top,
twirling
across the bulletin,
over announcements,
around hymns,
the pew turned table.
My limbs extended.
And still there was a time I didn’t dread going to church.
The morning of my confirmation
I strutted past beaming baby boomers
standing sentry at the sanctuary’s entrance.
My immaculate white clothing
straining against my chest,
fibers
in direct opposition of my violently thrust shoulders
and cock-like posture.
My mouth cinched tight in superiority and pride.
I accepted my first communion.
The wafers: flesh.
The wine: blood.
I, the perfect-postured zombie,
Head-lolling on stiff spine,
shoveling down the body of my Savior.
Blind dedication the spade in my right hand;
surface-level understanding the trowel in my left.
My limbs stretched further, to their limits, leaving stains on my skin when I grew up too fast.
And there was a time I didn’t dread going to church.
Because I no longer go to church at all.
My mind,
once an organized office space,
has been devastated by a magnitude 8 earthquake.
The cabinets housing my understanding
of equality, equity, and equivalence
have not been upended.
They have been flung, flipped.
Crushed.
The definitions I once knew ooze from drawers like spilt ink cartridges.
The fluorescents dangle from floss wire suspension,
the sparks they shoot neurons
too enthused to convey any message
beyond the high-pitched shrieking
of a person overcome by anxiety.
I stopped going to church
because I stopped believing in the church.
A building was not, could never be, my saving grace.
I have not found peace.
I gained no strength in discovering the fraud of conformity.
But I cannot handle life alone.
When I colored on the pews,
my parents perched at my sides,
pillars surrounding my faith.
When I was confirmed,
I was surrounded by proud peers and prouder instructors,
pillars surrounding my faith.
The presence of their faith cannot warrant the existence of my own.
But I wonder: have these pillars of past protection granted me the capability of leaning in on myself without collapsing?
