leigh powell

salvation


I am a virgin
except for him
of the Gospel Temple
friend of my brother
who rode around on his bike
Bible in his hand
door to door

“Are you saved?” he would ask.

he and his boy-like fumblings
slipping his hand between my legs
when no one else was looking
rubbing against my as yet
untethered breasts
grinning, laughing

and on Sunday, saying something
about a dollar and faith in what
you cannot see

“Are you saved?” he would ask.

And then, that day,
when I was alone
he
finishing what he clumsily began
so many different times
on so many different days

pushed back onto my brother’s bed
and over before I knew it
except for the bruises on my wrists
and thighs

and a voice that still wakens me at night.

“Are you saved?”