​​​

​East Fork:

A Journal of the Arts​​


The Invitation
By: Amanda Vandermolen


I understood that you grew up
in the great depression and that your
spawn walked the aisles
of white Baptist pews, waiting
to save every soul in the house.
They waited while the beads of sweat
slipped down tinged
plum necks—
and  like that time
I pissed in the aisle
of Lindale Baptist
because they would not
let me potty during invitation—
they waited to tell me that they
could not come.
 
I even rehearsed that stupid
hymn you made me carve
so deep into my memory
with every slam of a fist
to a pine pulpit.
Still, you would not have me
Just as I am
and even though I breathed
your God for years
into my lungs
like air was sin,
you flung me out
into the wolves and left
me a black sheep
so you could attend your flock
sitting in pews
drenched in sweat
and piss.