His mind became my closet, listening to all the acrimonious BS, at the Pentecostal show, By the laying his hands on my pillow case at 3 am—somehow the scent of bourbon and Cheetos linger. He pulled his pecker too many times, I remember the hole in his vestment, where the holy stains never came out. They said he had the gift of tongue, but now his testicles hung from my mouth.
His slurred patois and cheap cigars, thinking my stepsister was his rosary or lottery ticket into the divine—but she is my chore now, pressing on the bruises of yesterday’s hymn. He sold absolution for rum punch and unwashed babies; I hear them still, baptizing plastic bottles in gasoline. And me? I just ask the moon—why do men always piss on sacred things?
The moon don’t answer. She just hums low like the neighbor’s generator when the power cuts. Outside, the rain comes sideways—not water, but the kind that smells like rust and spoiled mangoes. Somewhere, a dog barks at the ghost in the bayou. The air tastes like copper and bad decisions—perhaps his soured semen, same as the night he first pressed his thumb on my stepsister’s swollen clit, thinking, it Eucharist whispering Scriptures turned to sweat and bedsprings—now bedsprings up his ass. If I ever catch him again, he will be sourdough.
Now the neighbor’s generator sputters—same rhythm as my stepsister’s breathing when she pretends to sleep. Her ribs rise sharp under her nightgown, yellowed from bleach and too much scrubbing. I press my palm flat against her back to feel the tremors. She doesn’t flinch. We both know the difference between holy ghosts and the kind that leave fingerprints.
