"A Prophet Tells of the Rapture" & "How Do I Leave This Group Chat?"

A Prophet Tells of the Rapture

She says she doesn’t know why her bibles stopped talking back.    I’m a good mother, she slurs. A certified Vodka Saint.   She wraps her newest bible—ripe and preteen—in scraps of leather she salvaged from the past and holds it up for the congregation.    When the taking comes (& it always does), this one will be mine forever.   She kisses her bible twice.   The malodorous mélange of Bukoff and E&J stains her breath and coats the bible in an isopropyl igloo of protection.  When the taking comes (& it always does), Lord, you will not take this one.   The congregation hoots and hollers, old devotees drop to their knees, a man playing the drums yelps Hallelujah and faints.   Far out in the back, some holy ghost takes another shot.

How Do I Leave This Group Chat?

We all learned how to swim
& I am an uncle now, too many times over.
The floods, they came and came, & carried
us, our pages damp & molded, our ink
bleeding, to each other.  Sure, I love you –
in the way the world says I should,
& yes, I wish I were a stronger swimmer back then.
But different translations of holy texts
all demanding honor & loyalty, feigning
closeness without proximity, sit in silence.
Our mouths, they’re working.  But no one understands
            a single word.