If I say ‘Amen’ the loudest
and I wear my hat the biggest
and quote Bible texts in the fashion of a parrot;
I shout on all street corners
and preach hellfire and brimstone
and chastise all my friends for going to secret raves;
If I vilify homosexuals
and shun the excited, tempted unmarried
and criticize the divorced with great vehemence;
If I set fire to the drumkit
and tell the Praise Team they’re too lively
and petition all and sundry for the banning of girls’ trousers
Then I’ll call myself the best Christian.
Yea, the best Christian of them all.
I wore this dress for you
because it fell below the knees.
Brown. For humility
with white stitching.
Because I’m pure.
I wore this hat for you
because I’m supposed to cover my head
and I combed my hair underneath–
I’m not vain, unlike other women.
I wore these shoes for you
because heels are normally sinful.
An aphrodisiac, they say.
I didn’t want to cause my brother to sin
so I thought it best that I would be
inconspicuous with my choice.
I didn’t expect to see you on Friday night, though.
Under the street lights,
shielded by a curtain of smoke
from the customary fags of revelers,
watching me as I cavorted
across the pebbles.
Unaware of the watchful eye
of my dear