by Eve Devera
at mississippi baptist there’s a boy with long eyelashes.
when you pass him the offering bucket,
his fingers linger on yours. he’s the preacher’s boy,
but he leaves the pew early and his shadow hangs
in the hot air like breath in prayer against your neck.
you hold a post-service picnic by the dumpster
where sin has never been so sweet, and he calls you his choir boy
in the drawl of lazy summer air. you want to make him smile,
so you steal the grape juice, set the jug to his lips,
watch him bare his throat and drink it down.
now, choir boy, don’t lose yourself in the revels
of another smooth-talking pastor’s son. the sun
will always set, and this lesson is one you’ve learned,
but soon the sky darkens and you’re late to dinner.
the table is empty and daddy waits at the door.
he’s a man of his word with brimstone in his back pocket.
he’s a snake crusher in a pair of steel-toes.
he’s a bible thumper who doles out beatings
with an arm that doesn’t tire till you see jesus,
and you see him every sunday. do not lie to a man,
or his belt will rain thunder down your back.
sing, choir boy, let them hear you repent.
let them hear your hymns and let your father forgive you.
tear leviticus out in sheets, lie on the pages so the ink
will stain your skin and soothe the welts. do this
but know that your eye will forever be drawn
to the beautiful boy with the forbidden mouth.
he eats an apple before the next sermon
and winks when you see him in the foyer,
nods an invite to the back lot garden to feast on figs
and sit in the shadows of the trees of eden.
remember, choir boy, jesus didn’t flinch at the sound
of those footsteps. but this patch of weeds is godless,
so it’s a last kiss on the cheek as the lights of the mob
come bobbing behind the church. judas lopes away,
but your feet tangle in the threads of transgression
and you stumble. they’re on you like stones
and there’s no one to draw in the sand for you,
choir boy, only the marks that your thrashing and wailing
leave scuffed in the dirt. they used to call you angelic
when you warbled your tunes, but now your body’s in the ditch
with angel robes stained bloody at the hem.
oh, choir boy, sing a little longer.
spread your wings and fly past the dregs
of mississippi to a place where they’ll look up
to hear your song trickle through the clouds.
one more hymn, choir boy, one more hymn
for all the boys with broken halos
who find themselves face-down in the mud.
Eve Devera is an undergraduate writer from Charleston, South Carolina studying Management at Charleston Southern University. She enjoys crafting poetry that balances sound and rhythm with vivid storytelling, right down to the particulars. Her work can be found in Olive & Ash, for which she also currently serves as Editor-in-Chief.