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The Baptist

You’ve never danced

a day in your life.

A good Baptist girl,

never held in your

twirl & sway,


no arms

around your waist,

like an Eden’s

snake that hugs

a tree of knowledge.


Even a pirouette

is out-of-bounds,

a solo spin

to mimic the Earth,

marking a day

made by a God.


I hate the Elders

for what they’ve done

to you, freeze-

framed in a corner chair,

at this post-wedding

night of frivolity,


a wallflower of their

making , with none

to water your bloom,


your explicit sulk

a signal to keep away,


unaware I’d sweep

you off your feet

if Reverend Hayes

would lighten up,


stop obsessing

about our shoes,

their willingness

to step beyond the

border,


ones aligned

to the beat

of our blessèd sin.




Andreas Gripp

November 13, 2023

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