Nothing to fear but fear itself, so roam the rivers and vines—
you won’t feel the hairs raise on your neck at the black
stripes on red once you’re already dead.
But some days, I go to lie in the thicket—
pause my mind’s deafening silent maneuverings,
the artful weavings of my bulky, firm heart.
You single-handedly lay and stack each strand
of the haystack.
I burn these allergens down one by one.
You wave the needle in my face
like an escape hatch,
burn through your accusations one by one-
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 