I wish to be singing alleluias
rather than wanting to set fire
to churches.  I speak the truth.

Mere blocks away a mocking bird priest
stands in the shimmering
of Pascal candles in his white vestments:
He who stole my faith, he who stopped my voice

He, member of the Anglican
patriarchal succession holds forth
and there are sheep with the silver hair
the unchallenging decorum
of the Goodly Episcopalian
in the palm of his hand.

Let us profile here:  let us name the names
of those who fail to think for themselves, the true sinners,
The dark-faced Mestizo woman
who stabbed me in the back
with gossip, spilling my confidences
like unshelled frijoles among the tepid women
of the choir

She, whose brake cables I would like to cut.
Let us crucify the liars
strip them of their Easter best
and throw them on a pyre for hypocrites.

The censor, she who spreads incense
throughout the nave
shall not be blamed.
He who reads the Gospel
held high over his head by acolytes
is the One
who came to me when I was ill
like the serpent in Eden:

Come back to us, we want you,
your voice; forgiveness abounds
in your old nest.  I am here
as is HE, the one of whom they speak
as having risen on this day.

She is to be blamed, who sits at the organ
in the white cotta of sanctimonious
look-at-me-  soli dei gloria, I give you Bach

And here is my choir, listen
to the ascension of voices
recounting redemption for all
but on account of your past
mistakes, although you sing like a meadowlark
“We do not want you after all.”

And according to the Gospel of a Living Woman
the child in me wept,
returning to the Gethsemane
where she had been living,
crouching down alone, hugging stone.