The Idolatry of Sisters

Nicole Lokach

I was dressing up for New York City-
putting on the jazzy bellbottoms
and the black strapped shoes that say
ignore the scripture and fuck me
right in the middle of the month.

You and Elijah drove your bus to the Oregon Coast
and practiced sex like good Catholics.
God decided to give you one
because he saw so much love that mattered.

You make candles and burn your hand
on wax for bread, as I toss dress after dress
onto a pile on the floor.

I forgive you for all the times you never said you
were sorry and when you took things from me
without asking - because God did the same to you.

Nameless he rode into the sky on his chariot of fire
and you scattered his tiny memory by the wide creation sea.