Skeleton Queen

A commentary on the nature of the church as an institution.

The dead dead eyes of the dead men who
Guard the door
Clam-hands clasped
Welcome, welcome
With a skeletal smile that stretches the skin.

Wandering souls walk
To and fro, to and fro.
Idle chatter spills from their
Cracked
Dry lips.

They squawk like birds
In their
Neat,
Clean clothes.
They reek.

Welcome, welcome
And sit
On the King’s opulent throne
To gawk at the naked passerby
To follow with a jade eye.

Would someone turn on a light?
I can’t seem to crack
The black-stained glass
That keeps me
Captivated.

Welcome and sit
To hear him speak, divine,
A fair, a sea, a sightless eye
That plucks me from my seat
Like a seed from the ground.

Let him without sin throw the first stone
To paint me scarlet
In my Rahab gown
And my thorn-crown brow
And force my lips to make me whole.

The dead dead eyes of the dead men who
Plead me stay and
Watch my body swell with
Lies, lies
To stitch my mouth: silent, blind.

A celebration for the new queen
To wash her hair at her master’s feet
To toil, toil, toil
As they cheer:
She is saved.