There, there

This is an expert from “sUNDAY sCHOOL: The B.Riche Gospel.” Want more? Donations accepted via tithe.

The key is rekinked and
the mat is front proud,
but you still

live haunted.

The pupils of pupils,
once protected,
beneath sheaths and sheets

and shes

are broke bare,
are undone,
are fogging up the windows
and making mess of maze.

You built this home with hands hung
and ranks real.

Where you trust smirk,
know thy beacon, freight and foe.

But there there’s no hello.
No nice to meet ya.
No who are you and how?

Are we same?

Can we grow?

There there’s only goodbye in abstraction,
and goodbye in absolution.
There’s only canals dug for kin.

There’s just incantations
drafted and grafted from—
What did she say and
what did she mean
does she even get it

and what is she about to do.

There there is still
salt on the sill,
and swears sworn to rid,
sat on the edge of the bed
still still,
til it tugs at the sheets that
have slipped.

But there is light in the crawlspace, too.
And there is the me,
unwatched and unwanting.

So if you care to come
—in thought even—
be barefoot

bear bread,

bear beard.

What you dared decide drew devil dear
is just you,
doing you a little different.