Conversion: On Cincinnati’s Converted Churches, God, and Lucifer

I.

The other day I almost felt the burden

of sin in Urban Outfitters (church of markups, house

of worship for pretenders, the suburban

teens masquerading as city-born). A blouse

on a rack arrests the gem-light from the rose

window, anemic sunlight dribbling through

stained glass, re-pressing new designs. Transpose

Jesus onto the Grateful Dead, skeletons toe-



to-toe and Our Lord and Savior kneeling, washing

their metatarsals. The mannequins wear

it better here, their pseudo-sockets watching

me mime their poses. Fiberglass arms bare

in tank tops. Legs half-lunging. One foot en pointe

like a disciple’s, for me to kiss. Anoint.

II.

Like a disciple, for me to kiss (anoint)

your face is to mark you for betrayal. Coffee

cups and carafes, my lipstick print disjoined

from the trellised skin—I leave behind a copy

of my mouth at cafés. I find a shop that sells

lattes and tea in the sanctuary, plays

old rap songs that would clatter like shotgun shells

in a Sunday service’s silence. During the weekdays,

the college kids forget themselves and burn

their tongues on dark roasts, mochas spilled, say shit

and cross themselves with a caffeinated finger-

gun to the head, the chest, the shoulders. I sit

and mouth the Father, Son, the Holy Spirit

with every touch, on beat, like a rap song lyric.

III.

With every touch—on beat like a rap song lyric—

my phone works less and less. The telltale check

of Verizon Wireless bums on its side; a satyric

smirk in vermillion, devil-red. At the tech

desk, the employee tests my touchscreen sensors.

He says, It’s almost gone, you’ll need to upgrade.

I let him rob me. His voice resounds from the center

of the store as if he’s preaching the terms of the trade-



in, rules like commandments. Forty dollars a month

to hear another voice, for someone other

than God to speak to me. One hundred up front

to kill the loneliness, to call my mother

some days. Siri records and keeps my confession;

Forgive me, Father, for all our missed connections.

IV.

Forgive me, Father, for all our missed connections—

my late-night pillow-prayer. I’ve avoided

going to church for months now, my collection

of excuses practiced, preached right back. I’m loaded

with bullshit, Sunday morning sermons spent

in bed, damning myself for sleeping too late.

But I never set the alarm. At night, I repent

by kneeling bedside, all my body’s weight

branding my knees with the carpet’s pattern.

My comforter clings to the dryer’s heat. I say

Let me explain, Lord, but it doesn’t matter.

We’ve been here before—last week, the other day

when my tongue played Judas and betrayed me, slipped

and cursed mid-prayer, abandoned the usual script.

V.



And cursed! Mid-prayer! Abandoned the usual script

again—you, venting to your angels, another

tally in red by my name. A sinner’s lip

on that one. I picture you watching me stutter

another apology. Your angels gather

around to eavesdrop and gossip about my judgment

day. What would you say if you heard the scattered

chitchat, your cherubs deep in their discussion

about my devil-speak? Have I sent angels

to punishment with this mouth? Cartoonish

really—you pointing like a parent, the painful

silence that follows Go to your room. Their moonish

eyes closed, hands clasped in prayer, asking you

for forgiveness. I hear angels mess up too.

VI.

For forgiveness, I hear angels mess up too.

My grandma tells me, An angel fell from heaven

because he started “smelling himself,” her new

expression. Probably ruined it the second

he got up there. I wonder if all my dreams

of falling are really just me losing

your favor and forgetting. To me it seems

that life is a game of this-or-that, of choosing

to deny the self or indulge. My grandma reminds

me it’s never black and white, but different shades

of gray. It ain’t easy being human. Sometimes

we fail a test, or we pass. There ain’t no grades

for that. Everyone sins. Lucifer even, falling

to hell, the heat beneath us licking. Sprawling.

VII.

To hell, the heat. Beneath us—licking, sprawling—

sunlight unfurling on the asphalt. My mother

and I amble through an outlet mall, sweat stalling

in the underwire of our bras. I smother

her hand in mine, wrestle her into air-

conditioning in Forever 21.

She fans herself with a coupon flyer, her hair

flapping in waves. I make a fleeting run

through the markdowns, neon tags for clearance, half

off. An employee asks if I need assistance

when I hold a shirt to my chest—its skeleton laughs,

a bouquet of roses in its mouth, its twisted

grin in on all my secrets, my darker version.

The other day I almost felt the burden.