They marched into the room one at a time
shadows from the valley of death
every long hair atop their heads wound
tight and high and kept in place
with heavy duty hair lacquer –
the kind marketed only
to Southern Baptists and Drag Queens –
their faces dried out
their eyes full of recently applied tears
legs swishing under the layers of clothes
and ankle length denim skirts
hands shaking from years of clutching bibles
and fresh from the freezer casserole dishes
murmuring the prayers taught to them by elders
who, too, were afraid of the dark. Leaning over
carefully, each one whispering only
so everyone could hear, asked
the only question they knew to ask:
Are You Right With God?
Accepting the dying woman's moans
for the answer they were looking for,
they shuffled out and back into the shadows
in the manner that they shuffled in –
shaking heads made heavy with hair pins
and fearful restraint ,silent as the grave
they try to hold at bay
using wooden crosses, family hymnals,
and worn out bibles listing the names
of the dead in the front and back cover
like a list of pious all-stars who,
like the savior whose name
they have all laid claim to
was revised over countless years
of enforced transubstantiation
in a way that in no way
contradicts the fire and brimstone preview
their pastor gives them each
and every Sunday.