Self-portrait as a Southern Baptist prayer altar

A poem about religion

Original art, by the author

I.

I’m plain wood, nothing ornate,
these planks could have come from apple carts,
these nails from your father’s tool box,
left from that summer he planned to restore
the deck, but didn’t get around to it.

I’m a place for tears to splash,
collecting in pools with snot
and rabid prayer slobber
on my glossy brown paint,
left from children or grown fools,
desperate to stay out of Hell,
their clasped hands now knotted ropes
tied to an anchor of nothingness.

I’m there, like a well without water
that begs the dehydrated to drink.
I’ll convince you that the voice in your head
is the voice of God, that intuition
or fear is a spirit that moves across your heart
like an undulating beam from a lighthouse.

Come to me. Can’t you feel the flames
licking the soles of your feet?
Can’t you feel the burden of accountability
engulfing…