Maybe when I’m older I’ll understand how religion is baked,
served and ate in batches, by mum and dad, each hour.
The Arabic slinking around gums and a sore tongue,
sifted in, drying out the mouth.
The guilt is folded in, a secret trimmed and tucked for later, for
the swelling of puberty. Ironed into long dresses, flared
to cover custard skin. And tired teenage boys
And you’ll see God through the holes in your toast, in the froth of your
coffee, even in the chewy meat your mum makes. Keep hushed, and
smile with your white iced teeth showing. You don’t understand
what He has that charmed your people, but
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