church tit-mouse witch and other poems by Jacklyn Janeksela

so easy to call them chicken bones & even
easier to read them should the weather be just
right, clank a bell or a chime
if you listen up, i’ll tell you where they came from, i whisper
these are my first incantations, Sunday

involves The Bible breakdown, piece by piece
the congregation removes bits like skin from a worn out
thumb, from a wrinkly bathtub toe, no one swallows
because no one talks about swallowing, sin is kin to action
and i’m all over this pew, writhing in childish

masturbation, the pulpit the most voyeuristic spot
in the house, the preachers pants are wet again
it’s sweat, someone’s mom whispers, this church business
does a number on the meek & mild, god pity the child and

the lamb, the flocked, the herded, collective we stand &
collective we fall and make sure you get the collection plate
before they all go, meanwhile i’m assembling my own
sheep, girls in dresses, offer a Bonnie Bell and these girls

good to go, off with the slip, off with the stockings
off with her head, she giggles & we hold hands like sisters
as i jerk her from the pear tree to the corner where
those bones spin on their own gristle if

we hold our breath and walk backwards and chant
jesus is a weasel, jesus is a weasel, the devil made me
do it, he wants to have my baby & if it’s dusk it works
better & if we’re alone i might kiss her