the incident with the fire and the burning cross and the lit up Papa Johns
By PRIYANKA VORUGANTI
too much red
with your mother
at the restaurant.
in the cab, you pray.
rounding 101th and Broadway,
i’m so sorry i’m such a sucker for His blood
three / four hours later
the light has yet to change
& rigor mortis sets in.
in front of you,
a cross in a window.
flames on a cross in a window and Jesus,
watching you watching Him
the Iranians from the hostel a block away
point their phones to the pizza place,
hoping pixels will confirm for them what Jesus was never able to.
ashamed with their own lack of faith,
they consider throwing out the devices. firemen
tilt their dicks to the storefront,
hoping their jizz
will stop The Second Cumming.
to silence the one you never knew you loved,
the only one who can make you feel whole, satiated, not finite-
you feel like you are trapped
between two versions of yourself.
the Iranians and the Firemen and then you.
you feel like you are floating,
grabbing / clasping / clawing
at something, some ledge,
some light, maybe.
maybe you sit
on Jesus’ lap and cry,
your face sinking,
dropping / drooping / falling
into his chest, into the fire
and you know that this is rebirth
and you know that you
a flash, sudden,
another, and then
millions of phones jammed into all of your holes.
a cold gush of water. so cold,
so naked, so empty & your mother,
standing over you, angry.
‘you were sitting right next to me and then you were gone!’