church feat. Shane Lory
from good morning, cruel world by Nico!
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about
Shane was kind enough to contribute his talent on the guitar to accompany this poem about God, family, and identity.
lyrics
every month or so
my mother tries to convince me
of the existence of god.
it’s so predictable, i’ve considered
marking it on a menstrual calendar,
the way her persistent spirituality has not menopaused
though her actually going to church and praying has.
i’ve tried to explain the ways
my imagination will not bend,
that i was not born with a god muscle
and she said she doesn’t need me to believe
in jesus, just
something.
my mother believes in a lot of things
like my brother and i
like her husband
like this hispanic hand-me-down mantra
i want to believe in so badly:
nothing is more important than family.
the first gift abuela gave me
was a rosary that shone as white as i pictured god would
and i kept it hung over my door for five years –
the love of god was akin to the love of a family
i hardly ever saw.
so i can’t blame my mother when she says church
will bring us back together, but i wonder
who she prays to when walking the generational tightrope
between a god who loves and a god who hates.
and yes, i know jesus doesn’t want me to go to hell
but he’s got a hell of a fan club who wants
to set us on fire.
just look at this world
full of queers who have fled
the burning rubble of families
crumbling around them.
abuela doesn’t have much time left
but there’s a reason i don’t visit –
the sight of me would kill her quicker.
i can thank the god she was taught for that.
i can’t help but want her last memory of me
to be all pigtails and possibility -
i can’t help but want my last memory of her
to be one where she still loves me
in spite of the people
who have loved me
who have looked at me
like i’m beautiful
not to mention the way they have made me say
“shit”
and “fuck”
and “jesus”
all in the same breath
but these are some religious experiences
i don’t need to share
with my grandmother.
she will never know my face
as it is now, but my mother
knows, and loves it still
for all its snarl, for all
its queer, for all its metal-shine,
for all of the holy! places
it has been.
it is with this same mouth
that i asked my mom:
‘are you ever afraid?
that your mom and sisters
and nieces and nephews
will find out about me?
about what they’ll say to you
about your queer child?’
she responded:
‘i didn’t get to choose my family then
but i choose
the family i have made.
you are the family i have made.’
i call that kind of love godly
so i can’t be angry at god
just as i am not angry at oxygen
for allowing a fire to burn.
when queers are used as kindling
in the burning shame of their families
god, like oxygen, is both the culprit
and the one thing we just hope
to inhale enough of
before the smoke closes in.
my mother tries to convince me
of the existence of god.
it’s so predictable, i’ve considered
marking it on a menstrual calendar,
the way her persistent spirituality has not menopaused
though her actually going to church and praying has.
i’ve tried to explain the ways
my imagination will not bend,
that i was not born with a god muscle
and she said she doesn’t need me to believe
in jesus, just
something.
my mother believes in a lot of things
like my brother and i
like her husband
like this hispanic hand-me-down mantra
i want to believe in so badly:
nothing is more important than family.
the first gift abuela gave me
was a rosary that shone as white as i pictured god would
and i kept it hung over my door for five years –
the love of god was akin to the love of a family
i hardly ever saw.
so i can’t blame my mother when she says church
will bring us back together, but i wonder
who she prays to when walking the generational tightrope
between a god who loves and a god who hates.
and yes, i know jesus doesn’t want me to go to hell
but he’s got a hell of a fan club who wants
to set us on fire.
just look at this world
full of queers who have fled
the burning rubble of families
crumbling around them.
abuela doesn’t have much time left
but there’s a reason i don’t visit –
the sight of me would kill her quicker.
i can thank the god she was taught for that.
i can’t help but want her last memory of me
to be all pigtails and possibility -
i can’t help but want my last memory of her
to be one where she still loves me
in spite of the people
who have loved me
who have looked at me
like i’m beautiful
not to mention the way they have made me say
“shit”
and “fuck”
and “jesus”
all in the same breath
but these are some religious experiences
i don’t need to share
with my grandmother.
she will never know my face
as it is now, but my mother
knows, and loves it still
for all its snarl, for all
its queer, for all its metal-shine,
for all of the holy! places
it has been.
it is with this same mouth
that i asked my mom:
‘are you ever afraid?
that your mom and sisters
and nieces and nephews
will find out about me?
about what they’ll say to you
about your queer child?’
she responded:
‘i didn’t get to choose my family then
but i choose
the family i have made.
you are the family i have made.’
i call that kind of love godly
so i can’t be angry at god
just as i am not angry at oxygen
for allowing a fire to burn.
when queers are used as kindling
in the burning shame of their families
god, like oxygen, is both the culprit
and the one thing we just hope
to inhale enough of
before the smoke closes in.
credits
license
all rights reserved
tags
about
Nico! Colorado Springs, Colorado
i'm a genderqueer spoken word poet that lives in colorado springs. i write identity stuff, body stuff, brain stuff. i write about the things that make me get out of bed in the morning.
discography
-
Aug 2016
contact / help
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