the blueshift journal

my mother snapped when she found us

in my grandma’s bedroom after the revival

where elderly women danced, hands swaying

 

in front of their wailing faces, conjuring rumors

of old-magic healings, of a clubbed foot unfurled,

their snarled hearts howling. One snatches a flag

 

from the altar & runs it around the sanctuary,

around our crumbling Jericho bodies, trumpeting

brash clashing tongues. Our flesh was a scarlet cord,

​

marked territory for the LORD. The pastor’s sweat

spatters the air with anointing, oiled holy water

sprinkling from his brow. He cries out, his groans

 

older than words, elderly virgin giving birth to God

-knows-what. With a ghost in his palm he charges

 

the bodies’ overloaded sockets, sparks

popping as they fall heavy & twitching

to the ground. My sister & I slump

 

further back into our pews. Later, in the room,

door closed, my sister holds her hand over

my forehead, forces a tremble, stammers out

 

some babble: holy-shekinah-sudoku-sukkot.

I let my knees unlock, fall back into the holy

of holies, tabernacle of laughter & pillows.

 

“My turn, my turn,” my sister giggles, but I

come back up to my mother’s face, furious,

flickering, aflame with St. Paul’s words.

 

It is written: Quench not the Spirit.

 

What she meant was, Don’t you dare

snuff out this fire. Watch it blister & warp

my bones. What I heard was,

 

Our god is so thirsty.

 

You must not give him a drink.

DON'T QUENCH THE SPIRIT,

BRANDON THURMAN