Sunday

By CL Bledsoe

Behind a wooden alter, white-robed old
men who smelled like fried chicken lectured

us about the sins of our minds. A pool
of greenish-blue water stagnated beside them.

They claimed it held the secrets to our salvation,
if only we’d let them dip us in with their shaking

arms. When the singing woke us, we begged
to go to the bathroom, and searched the otherwise

empty building. We explored every door, climbed
to the balcony looking for something worth finding

while in the other room, our neighbors
smiled politely and damned us to hell.