Acceptance (Episodes on faith)
By Bex

I was baptized by a man who played guitar.
Notes dragged on each string,
Like slurred words of drunken men on their last.
I came up for air,
and was finally saved.

Our City beaches
yawn like solitude,
and sprawl out eons of disparity.
You can hear the water roll over the masses
in your palms if you keep them shut.

I was aware the sharks were coming.
I fed yellow to the sun.
I closed my eyes,
hoping that I was praying.
I felt oppressed.

I was laid on my back like a woman I had witnessed,
possessed by demons.
I was afraid then,
not of the serpent that dragged its body across the floor,
but of her, and what she was without it.

She hung a rope, and tied a knot, post Jim Crow.
Buttocks cocked in the air, ballet poised on a chair;
Saartjie.
When I walked past her, The Savior dropped out of me.
I closed the door, and I never looked back.