I want it delicious

so I add a slab of butter

and don't dare measure

‘cause why would God create joy

if she wanted us to

measure our portions?

Give me the fire hose

so I can drink it like

a NYC summer night—

like a baseball bat and

backward hat

swinging for the fences

summer night,

and if it drowns me,

so be it.

When I die, I hope

I'm swaying lobster roll hips

like it's an act of resistance.

Of course, it's a sputter of privilege—

a tone deaf ringing

clanging in the hallowed halls,

kneeled in sacred pews by worn

white knees worshipping a

faded false God

‘til Jesus storms in, brown and

on fire—ripping, raging tables

from ground to sky:

watch them shatter and splinter

on stone stucco steps,

watch the stained glass melt and

fuse our feet to the ground.

Stay here, stand here.

Watch as justice comes

and shows us

how to hold this unholy surrender

to being born

this way, when maybe

the point of it all, in every lifetime

is tear it down

‘til we're all in the garden,

our knees sinking into

the only alter the gods need,

tilling the only sacrament the gods want—

the one where we grow

and feed food

to each other—

the sacred communion

where you say, bless you,

and place a morsel on my tongue—

the one where I say

may you be blessed,

and the one where you say,

may we all.

Lucy Nelson (she/they) is a poet and writer who is deeply concerned with studying the rhythms of nature, extending compassion to all creatures, and fostering tenderness in community. She is a grad student at Smith College and is in training to become a therapist. She lives on the coast of Maine, and she spends her time talking to the waves and seeking little truths.