If I Hadn’t Left (the Mormon Church)

I’d be sitting in the foyer buried

in a congregation of men’s voices

stretching off-key up to heaven–

watching women with eyes bowed

down in silent service. 

Stale sacrament would saturate 

the air. I’d be staring at a dingy 

forest green carpet beaded with puke 

colored speckles. Like that one time I woke

up head-spun and stomach-squelched

and still made it to my 8am class on time. 

But that would only be hypothetical, 

because if I hadn’t left the only thing

I’d know about amber tinted

devotion is the shape of my dad’s fist 

in the wall the day before he repented - 

begged the bishop for money to fix 

it. My hands would be busy

baking bread or sewing to keep me

docile. My body would be a baptismal

font flooded with babies. I’d have 

God’s template on how to worship 

my body memorized. No coffee 

allowed - maybe He wants me walking 

around with my eyes closed, mind 

clouded in celestial kingdoms, 

believing my body is worth

what it can do for men. 

I would only imagine the heat 

of a woman’s breath on my neck,

wondering if the Holy Ghost watches

me masturbate. I hear his still small voice

reporting back to my Heavenly 

Father: Not doing too well this week - 

twenty-seven times! Can you believe 

it?  Maybe God gets off

on sexual repression. I’ve reclaimed

my body as my own temple - invited 

devout worshippers both tempting 

and tender. No baptisms for the dead 

here because I am only alive. 

I’ve put my conviction into living

and loving out loud, on my knees praying 

to each part of me, a brimstone 

rebellion to the faith I’ve left behind.

---

Cover photo by Bernadetta Watts