• Lena Drake

dive on Friday night

He prays like the hopeless,

the way their fingers lace across

a bottle or a waist—forgetful.

His church sits somewhere close,

close enough that you don’t have to

drink to drive. A pastor slurs

through the sermon, pouring

him a double. The congregation

roars, feeling sinless,

or spineless.

A passerby enters to hear

the word of god, but all

he finds are skirt-clad women

tripping on LSD.

“That way to Jesus,”

one of them laughs,

as she slips

into the bathroom,

my father’s arms

around her waist.

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