by Shutta Crum
you expected a penitent
kneeling at the altar of you
got, instead, a bawd
whose sin was to alter
your belief in your infallibility
who struck communion aside
who pushed your hands into her sex
intoning, Blessed be this—the blood of myself.
who said, Wash your own damn feet.
who strode through the dark chancel
of your hypocrisy, canceled her piety
lifted her skirt and confessed herself into the light
***
Shutta Crum is a Robinson Jeffers Tor House Foundation honoree poet (2024). Her poems have appeared in many journals in several countries including West Trade, Acumen, Calyx and Boulevard. A Pushcart nominee, she is the recipient of 8 Royal Palm Literary Awards (FL). Her chapbook When You Get Here won a gold RPLA. Her latest chapbook is Meet Me Out There (Kelsay Books). She publishes the monthly newsletter: The Wordsmith’s Playground. www.shutta.com