pagans have more fun

your tongue of God is loud. yelling gibberish into pin holes—

i’ve heard this song before. hymns of tiny cuts made with crosses on skin.

the needle skips, you pour more salt. i’m not fucking listening,

i promise. throw scripture into static—rip

hair, bare teeth. ancient dogma story time to backs turned.

such waves corrode young girls, breathing inside storms. bent necks with crucifix chains,

weary of man’s rule. i am hanging up on your God. consult the centuries—

lock cathedral doors on this witch. I’ll wander into

forests, under a moon pulling salt from wounds. she cleans raped flesh of prayers to no one.

moonbeam covens with mossy wombs calling, a dance by firelight memories.

here we drink the rain of ancestors. our bible of roots, beetles, and bones—turn the page.

we are a song older than a cross of stolen blood—beating the proud drum of blasphemy.

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C.M. O'Connell is an organic veggie farmer from Central Maine and avid forager of all the pretty plants for her herbal candle projects. She spends most days corralling her two year old human with little success. Some of her poems and essays can be admired at Quail Bell Magazine.