DĀSHAUN WASHINGTON
Light Rising from my knees, with open eyes and sealed lips, as the pastor prays over the flock, I quickly flee the chapel. Outside of church, I hold hymns in my mouth tighter than the white boy placed between my lips. Suck in. Look up. Blow out. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repent. Butt in the air, I recall Catholic school, wooden sticks and Sunday evening service. I think of how the confessor does not confess. How hell isn’t too far from the front pew. How, en masse, sheep are slain in the spirit for their flesh to be laid at the altar.
42 | Raleigh Review
