[but who’s going to pick me up?]

In this whale
father calls church, I feel a new wet
spread like the red of the pew.
For the closing song,

we rise like boats
Momma sees the spot
blending like war vespers. I look to Father
but it’s Momma who takes my hand

& sludges me through the belly of the middle aisle.
Wiping red, I wonder why Momma ain’t tell me ‘bout
lady’s leaky and conspicuous potlucks.