perhappened mag
issue 10: DAYDREAM
ladybugs / jade beetles
(or, after learning the catholic church once again refused to bless same-sex marriages)
WANDA DEGLANE
CW: religion, homophobia
i.
one day, when I am 8, I find the letters
“FCC” spray painted all over the south wall
of our church. “FUCK THE CATHOLIC
CHURCH,” they clarify on the sidewalk.
over and over, scrawled and screamed.
I can’t stop thinking, dreaming about it.
rewriting the words in the air on my way home.
ii.
I look everywhere for God. my classmates
pray silently, soft-smiling while they speak
to Him. I look in every church pew, in every
rosary bead, in every measure of every song
of every hymnal. my knees constantly dirtied
and purpled from how often I try to pray, from
every time I hear nothing back. in the mirror,
I see the devil. I breathe fire to warm my hands.
even full of people, the church is stiffeningly cold.
iii.
at confession, the priest beckons me to kneel,
then pulls the sin from my open mouth.
ribbons and glitter and paper dolls and feathers,
all stolen from my throat. the priest tells me I am
holy now. I taste the inside of my mouth and it is
bland and empty, like salvation.
iv.
one day, when I am 16, I fall in love. her voice is
sunlight, she spins blades of grass into honey.
I find god in her eyes, jade beetles dancing
at my fingertips. when I pray, I am split open,
leaking sweetened sap and flower petals from
every orifice. I dream of her lips, singing hymns
into my open mouth.
v.
at confession, the priest beckons me to kneel,
and pulls my god screaming from my throat.
I heave dead birds and goldfish and snakes
that whisper beautiful lies, and aghast, he
tells me I am damned. I pray fifty our fathers
and fifty hail marys and still the sin lingers
in my blood. I stretch out my tongue
to receive Christ and He slices it clean off.
vi.
I beg for forgiveness from every holy face
I can find. I am told I must denounce my
heart, choose bitter, husk-like salvation instead.
I refuse. I am told I was never good enough
for God, for His church, and for the first
time in my life, I wholeheartedly believe.
vii.
my god is not in the church, but the ladybug.
not the cross, but the dew-slicked backs
of toads. my god is not hushed, ashamed prayer,
but loud-screamed songs about pussy and
sex and girls loving girls. and listen, my god
formed all my fingernails, and my hair follicles,
and every cell of my gay little heart. and my god
loves me so much, every tear in my eye is filled
to bursting with its love. one day, when I am
several moons older, I will present god with
my blessed wife, and it will be so pleased.
one day, when I am 8, I find the letters
“FCC” spray painted all over the south wall
of our church. “FUCK THE CATHOLIC
CHURCH,” they clarify on the sidewalk.
over and over, scrawled and screamed.
I can’t stop thinking, dreaming about it.
rewriting the words in the air on my way home.
ii.
I look everywhere for God. my classmates
pray silently, soft-smiling while they speak
to Him. I look in every church pew, in every
rosary bead, in every measure of every song
of every hymnal. my knees constantly dirtied
and purpled from how often I try to pray, from
every time I hear nothing back. in the mirror,
I see the devil. I breathe fire to warm my hands.
even full of people, the church is stiffeningly cold.
iii.
at confession, the priest beckons me to kneel,
then pulls the sin from my open mouth.
ribbons and glitter and paper dolls and feathers,
all stolen from my throat. the priest tells me I am
holy now. I taste the inside of my mouth and it is
bland and empty, like salvation.
iv.
one day, when I am 16, I fall in love. her voice is
sunlight, she spins blades of grass into honey.
I find god in her eyes, jade beetles dancing
at my fingertips. when I pray, I am split open,
leaking sweetened sap and flower petals from
every orifice. I dream of her lips, singing hymns
into my open mouth.
v.
at confession, the priest beckons me to kneel,
and pulls my god screaming from my throat.
I heave dead birds and goldfish and snakes
that whisper beautiful lies, and aghast, he
tells me I am damned. I pray fifty our fathers
and fifty hail marys and still the sin lingers
in my blood. I stretch out my tongue
to receive Christ and He slices it clean off.
vi.
I beg for forgiveness from every holy face
I can find. I am told I must denounce my
heart, choose bitter, husk-like salvation instead.
I refuse. I am told I was never good enough
for God, for His church, and for the first
time in my life, I wholeheartedly believe.
vii.
my god is not in the church, but the ladybug.
not the cross, but the dew-slicked backs
of toads. my god is not hushed, ashamed prayer,
but loud-screamed songs about pussy and
sex and girls loving girls. and listen, my god
formed all my fingernails, and my hair follicles,
and every cell of my gay little heart. and my god
loves me so much, every tear in my eye is filled
to bursting with its love. one day, when I am
several moons older, I will present god with
my blessed wife, and it will be so pleased.
Wanda Deglane is a night-blooming desert flower from Arizona. Her poetry has been published or forthcoming in Glass Poetry, Drunk Monkeys, Yes Poetry, Cosmonauts Avenue, and elsewhere. Wanda is the author of Melancholia (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press, 2021) and other chapbooks.