Sacrifice 

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As a child, I’d been forbidden from the formal living room,

 

just as now, I remain barred from Heaven despite pointing out

 

that even Satan had strolled the Golden Streets.

 

Perfection that produces sin is no longer perfect,

 

for even a heifer cow cries when her calf is stolen from her side.

 

After electroconvulsive therapy and ketamine infusions,

 

my visage had become distorted, like the 3D earth, flattened for

    

    a trifold map.

 

So, I conferred with the women as they fixed their hair for the tent revival:

 

What am I, if not a brain with teeth? I asked, eyeing the medieval stocks,

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    imagining the humiliation of the town square.

 

It’s good to have something to look forward to, a women in blood-red lipstick said,

 

    stoking the flame.

 

And then as I was fed into the furnace, I realized this 

 

    was my 

    enduring 

    animal sacrifice. 

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