Confession

For an old friend

I slipped from religion quietly,
as though trying to sneak
unnoticed from a party.
Preachers made less sense to me,
outlining how Buddhists and Jews
would burn, how marriage
was between man and woman, disgust
flicking like spit from their mouths.

You grew into religion, as if
it were an older sister’s hand-me-down.
If your brother said he were gay
years ago, you might’ve
bought him a drink and listened.
Now, you say you’ll pray for him.

As kids, we joked about
the dry wafer taste Christ leaves
in your mouth. We lay
in the churchyard, praying for boyfriends
and breasts—and then, guilty,
food for the hungry. To show
we were moved while singing hymns,
we raised our left hands like pop stars.