an acolyte for a born into faith, fearful to stumble and set the
sanctuary ablaze. there was no calamitous fall into the pews,
i careened out of them, and into- hell, im told. is this hell? a
temperate snowfall brushes over us and i am to consider this
hell? it does get hot. even when ice slicks my boots, it is hot
when you look at me. i want to melt from it. in time i will be
mollified down to wax and free to be shaped by another man,
another cult. a new moth, new flame, new candle to be walked
down a new aisle. the fear from the dawn— fire. the prophecy
roared in pews was wrong. there is no charring in response to
our sin, no burned flesh for our moments of love. if we suffer
a divine punishment it will not be because of where we slept
or with who, but because we could not hold sacred our union.
the eternal damnation i grapple with at night is not to do with
denial of any god’s love but the precipitous absence of yours.
About the Author
Paxton Knox is a queer writer and poet. They were born in Arkansas, and currently live in Oklahoma where they study sociology and creative writing. They long to be reading on a beach somewhere.