“Don’t you want to meet Jesus?” she asks on Facebook.

“How much will it cost this time… a tenth of our yearly income….

the guilty looks of our children,

being accused of thoughts not acceptable.”

Squeezing into the too-happy a print dress,

that rides and buckles over my ridges and flaws.”

“No, thanks but no.”

“Jesus loves you,” says she.

“Whatever–so?” I say.

“Can’t love nyself.”

“You’re not supposed to- you’re to clothe yourself in the righteous of Christ.”

“Fuck you, ” I think, but do not say.