Perhaps this preacher is self-assured
because he’s oblivious
to all he didn’t earn.
He shoves me condemnation,
though I’m not sure why.
I’ve slowly learned
not to obey this anxiety he sells me
for the price of my soul.
Weekly, I reassure myself
that I would obey a better voice,
but in fear I ask, if my faith
only soothes, does it lack works, dead?
This day, I finally grasp
that if this white man isn’t god,
and the oily logic from this pulpit isn’t god’s words,
Alphabet Ravine 