Every Sunday we would look for trouble
there on the corner at the ice cream store.
Him and I always go on the double
every weekend for hours, maybe more.
Picking me up in his blue Chevy truck,
music blaring, always wearing his smile.
For the longest time this tradition stuck
A trip to the shop, down the road a mile.
He picked me up every Sunday for years,
until that night I got the dreadful call.
They gave me the news that left me in tears,
screaming and crying, I was in withdrawal.
On Sundays I sit feeling pretty blue
still reliving the thoughts of me and you.
The silent whisper of a raspy voice
Replays over and over in my head.
“Stop”, I try to scream but I have no choice;
I wish I would have spoken out instead.
My body scarred from the touch of fingers.
The memories never stop replaying
No matter what I do they still linger,
All these memories are so betraying.
I want to put this torture to an end,
Yet it will be oh so terrifying.
This nightmare is so hard to comprehend,
To do all this scary testifying…
Now that time has passed, I feel free at last,
From this monster that belongs in my past.
Grants Pass, OR
Sunday people say their prayers at night.
Best behavior people snack on bread
And blood. Pew people volunteer in sight,
And Bible people quote the stuff God said.
Potluck people promise you their prayers
At picnics on hot Sabbath afternoons.
Pulpit people hold on to what’s theirs
And pass the plate with promises of “soon.”
They do not feel the seas churn over their sails.
They do not know they’re capsized on the waves.
They do not understand what heaven is.
They never heard the hammer pound the nails,
Just the neon buzzing, “JESUS SAVES,”
And napping in their graves, they think they’re His.