When I was young
looking at my dark brown skin
illuminated underneath the colored stained glass
I memorized that I was holy
but
only under certain terms
under certain bodies
under the thick, oxblood leather of the Book

I memorized that my access to sacredness 
must be bleached washed in lily of the valley white
holiness achieved only by the swallowing
of stale bread
grape juice 
and
the loss of any and all of what might make me
me

desire
lust
red-handed
queerness

these exist on a larger list that,
for a while
I could not name
or utter
without feeling the deepest shame

The reclamation of the mind is a dangerous thing
But,
the question is
who is in danger? 

me
or 
the institution that asked me to abandon myself 
for a white man who didn’t exist to save me
or my ancestors

If I reclaim my mind and recover my power,
how many hail marys must I say to pull the hood from her son’s face?