Coffee is the blood,
cigarettes the body.
The sole communion
before noon. Our voices
form a choir, but we don’t
kneel to pray. In my family,
the women stand strong
and proud. Bowing to no man.
I don’t worship the Father;
no gods linger here. Instead,
my mother is revered.
Flesh and blood. She
who sculpted me
from her very own body.
The gossip of the week
becomes our gospel. Instead
of church clothes we wear
pajamas, and housecoats.
Our sacred spaces are
front yards, trailer parks,
and the smoking sections
of hotels– wherever
the morning finds us.
We deliver sermon in turn,
praising only
each other. No pews
grace our churches,
just lawn chairs and
hard benches.
In our sanctuary we
find communion.
Shared laughter and
whispered secrets
our confessional. The family bond
our unspoken devotion.
Unholy and raw fueled
by coffee and smokey breath.
Sam M. Woods is a full time janitor, perpetual student, lifelong writer and avid reader.
Currently enrolled in English Literature and Pop Culture at Toronto Metropolitan
University, she started sharing her work as part of a creative writing class, and has been
exploring more ways to share her work since, including spoken word performances. None
of her work has been published in any form as of now.
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