Egun Prayers

Women have made men holy all over this town.

Egun prayers and an heirloom bible.

The word is only good insofar as the intent.

Wise women press palm leaves into crosses between the pages, leave their warmth sweating into expectant brows.

Their hands remember what mouths forget.

I do not know the meaning of salvation,
but I hear tell it looks something like this.

Levitation comes naturally to those who can fold themselves into the hands of God.

The road to redemption is neither paved nor sure.

Oyster shells sing beneath my feet like bones, casks of the ones who took the path blind.

Women have made men holy all over this town.

Rattle the door of the parsonage
and tell the father, Come. See.
The ancestors are already seated.

What is ordainment if not water rushing forth between parted lips, libation mistaken for blessing?

Final words read like last rites, and I am commended for dying again.

A spirit making space for itself.
Embodied flesh remembering breath.

I open my eyes to seek the matriarch’s face.

The ground rises to meet me, and I collapse into her waiting arms.