I too used men to get close to what is holy. I dated the pastor's son  
in private, the boy who finger knit me scarves, then the one with the car 

so big it was like a boat drifting across the lanes as we held hands in the dark.  
And for them, I was no longer allowed to sit in the pews. They don't mean  

Mary fucks other grandfathers, only her own. But really, she married her late  
grandmother's husband. And everyone laughs at this absurdity, even myself.  

But I have done so much in the name of faith I knew was wrong. Mary’s  
grandmother delivered the sermon each Sunday but had no divine claim.  

To keep the women of the family at the helm, she wrote in her will  
Mary was to wed to her husband. Women have little claim in most holy spaces.  

I was shouted out of the first church that made me lose myself. The pastor's  
son can no longer live near a school but I hear he takes up all the space he wants   

at the pulpit. Yesterday, the girl he hurt won a million dollars on a scratch off. 
I don't believe in a god but this is the closest I've been to faith in years.  

Chrissy Martin is a Visiting Assistant Professor of Poetry at Centenary College of Louisiana. She holds a PhD in poetry from Oklahoma State and an MFA in Poetry from Columbia College Chicago. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Harpur Palate, Cherry Tree, Crab Creek Review, and Carve Magazine.