Tomi Shaw
 

Friday night Inz & Outz’s Coven gathered at their usual table, knocking back their caldronous brews as drums beat, guitars squealed, and lyrics were sung.  Sung loudly and brazenly, and I danced center floor and bent over the pool table in a miniskirt and flirted with the sound guy and slopped kisses with my bass-boyfriend during intermissions.  Intermissions that bled red from the stage lights, that gave us moments to ponder White Picket Dreamer’s green demand that Skin Beater not mingle, and we laughed.  Laughed, too, as the lycra sheathed, bleached hair, lipsticked wannabes circled, initiated talk, lapped at our leavings.  Leavings we took late after closing and pipe smoke and money exchange.  Exchange of cloth for skin, of hands for tongues, of fluids for languor, and we watched the sun rise from the back side.

Sunday morning finds me in church with sis and Mamaw.  Mamaw, my dead mother’s mom, a Methodist she-wolf, a far cry from the Latter Day Saint that baptized me, drags us to revival.  Revival preaches damnation, hymn murmurs in my ringing ears, amens often.  Often lying, forcing unreal stories on me, on my sister.  Sister, more my child, the baby, the soul that grounds me.  Me ten years older, her way-maker, her my only flock.  Flock flee to the self-appointed Savior off his podium, kneel, cry, beseech the touch of his hand on their forehead, the feel of him in their space, in their cold hearts that will forget all this when they step back into the sun, into the world, into life.  Life talks to me in the silent gaze of my sister and her tiny shrug, while we still sit in the pews and watch the flock speed to feel.  Feel awkward, outside, left behind and taking her hand, we edge to the Savior and kneel, beseech the touch.  Touch me not for though I hang my head chin buried in my chest, I pretend to cry.   Cry not for me, my Sin, at least I know I’m a liar.