“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.