By Reyzl Grace
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Use of the f-slur, descriptions of burning, religious trauma
—for E. R. Shaffer
The last time someone put torch to my feet as you do,
smoke curled my hair and ash settled
on my skin like lace, and all the unconsumed
forest spread behind my stake was a train
borne by moths, and I looked to the church door,
thinking my father might offer me his arm,
but the angels flew from the tracings of its ironwork
with their extinguishers and put me out.
The night we met, I wondered why the Malleus
was on your shelf—what secret you might prize
from it—but now I know you know exactly
what kind of faggot I am—just where to touch
to light your wasteless flame, as though your torch
could tear the dress from my body in a rush of wind
and fire and open the church doors to a river
of angels singing “Holy, holy, holy . . .”
Reyzl Grace is a Pushcart-nominated poet/librarian with work in Room, Rust & Moth, So to Speak, and elsewhere, as well as a poetry editor for Psaltery & Lyre. Originally from Cascadia, she now lives in Minneapolis with her novelist girlfriend, arguing over which of them is the better writer. (It’s her girlfriend.) You can find more of her at reyzlgrace.com and on Twitter/Bluesky @reyzlgrace.
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