Tonight's Poet Corner: Religion's A Drug

Religion's A Drug
by Belinda Toddie

People say if I pray hard enough, a wafer
will save my life, a sip of grape juice
will rejuvenate my sinful veins, and a loud

enough hymn will make the birds squawk
and drown out the cacophony of the damned
outside. And you know what, I believe them.
I believe them hardcore.

People who think they don't see God
are cute. He's everywhere. He's in
the fucking heroin you're injecting
into your bent up arm, coiled like
Satan's snake around a tree in the garden

as withered as my father's dick when
he was about to beat my mother senseless.
The hard-on he got from that was
extraordinary. Nothing made him happier.

Me, I'm Christ's chosen prophet. No guns
to spread my gospel, but a hoodie and
a solid pair of sneakers keep me walking
from sodomistic San Francisco to
boozed up Kentucky. Pour me a bourbon,

and I'll show you how its burn can rival
Hell itself. Its gates have been open to me
for a long, long time. I just choose not
to sauté my hands on its iron.

When the Eucharist first touched my
lips, it was like a holy slap in the mouth.
I was invigorated. Like, shit, I thought,
this is better than cigarettes. This is better

than whiskey and beer and the coke I snorted
on Sundays. Staple a crucifix to my fucking
chest, Mary, Mother of God - I'm finally
really alive now.

Just don't take it personally if I kick you in
the skull when you spit at me. Or if I try
to impale you with your own rainbow flag.
See, everyone starts looking the same, after

a while, like my dad all naked and swollen
above my mom's bruised bosom. With the shitty
chandelier hanging from the ceiling crowning
his bald head with light like a crummy halo.