in the church where i grew up
there is a boy who carries a man bag
who knows the difference
between ascots and cravats
who wears plaid suits
with the pants too tight
all of the deacons shake their heads
whenever he comes to prayer
and he comes to prayer every week
he is usually the topic of conversation
just before the giggles go silent
then the silence cut
by the serrated edge of the question
"so is he?
or isn't he?
does anybody know?"
he does a perfect job
of clapping along
when the whole church erupts in praise
but sometimes he sits on the back row
sometimes he pulls too much at his tie
sometimes when he prays he reminds me of hannah
always filled with tears
and often no words
i think he has stopped believing
that our god
is a god of love
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