chewed gum

Deborah Brown

on Thursday afternoons
when you’re seven
when your oldest sister cleans the church
where you die every Sunday
what else are you supposed to do, but stand
behind the pulpit, looking into a vacant congregation
and imagine what it must be like to see god’s people
as more than backs of heads and old men’s
hands touching your hair. you swear
if you could see the world from there, and call the shots
no one would hear about
chewed gum or original sin again