The Preacher Man

by Amber Patrick, Contributor

I drank the water,
bought your Sermon,
sip by sinful sip.

Hell hath no fury
like a women worn,
battered, t o r n.

[bruised] I rise,
mane of red and eyes bright,
the taste of blood on my tongue,
a reminder of lacking penance.

These sins were yours.
I paid their price, regardless of the debt in
which they placed me.

Arms spread,
I take in the sun,
head thrown back,
mouth agape,
a howl escapes

[a whisper]


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LANDFILLS is a grassroots literary, arts and culture online collective based in Chicago. All work is original, except the featured images that accompany text posts (which are blatantly stolen from Complaints should be directed to Po via Twitter.
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