Sunday Consciousness

I have been there — on those Sundays
standing on the cathedral steps
when the sun is bright and pious
and it blinds me

What kind of worship is this?

When even in my Sunday dress
and frilly socks
and Mary Janes —
I feel unworthy

What kind of worship is this?

Beams of light dancing on a little girl's skin
and still she feels shame

What kind of worship is this?

This God must die
I have been there — too many times
standing on those steps
sinking into that Sunday consciousness

Here is atonement
Here is absolution

But why must I answer to anyone or anything?

I go back there in my mind —
to those blinding Sundays
to those pious steps
to that sinking consciousness

I pray to a dead God
and I create a new one

What kind of worship is this?

The sun continues to shine — pirouettes on my skin
and even though the sun is outside of me
it warms from within
and this is how my new God
chooses to love me