I was angry.
I felt hot and righteous.
I dressed my hips
In a black
Short skirt. “Too short,”
Said my sister-in-law.
I must speak
to the bishop. The Bishop
Is my best friend’s father.
I put on what I thought would protect me
I wait for the
Bishop. While I wait
I think
Guilt is a vein vice;
Dying would be easy,
Like going fishing.
There aren’t enough hours in the day
To pray why did I let that boy undress my consciousness?
I am waiting for the
Bishop. Everyone has to wait for
The Bishop.
In this
Valley men thirst for
God, but women are starving
For anyone. It’s acid
Rancid bite existence.
I have all but dried up
Thirsting for God;
My belly is distended,
Starving for anyone.
I bathe in acid rain
And bite my tongue
And bide my time.
I desire power
My sex cannot assume:
Immediate revelation,
The laying-on-of-hands. The
Bishop, he opens the door
And ushers me in. I lay
Bare for him;
My sins known,
My skin showing,
My trial. I accuse myself of
Heresy, apostasy.
I say
“ I cannot be your kind of woman.”
We bash books,
We shake Psalms.
We reach a stalemate because the Bishop is not God
Or John Winthrop
And it is not 1637.
I leave triumphant
At our impasse. I am
Full from fighting,
Exotically free,
Inexplicably healed.
