She keeps asking
what it takes to be saved:
pray they say get naked publish.
Drink Prosecco in early evening,
whiskey for the witching hour;
drink until you can touch, recoil,
fuck. Text first but don’t answer.
Text your tits
but not your dick.
Smile and be ironic, write poetry
for balance. Talk to witches and
read your Bible. Tell ghost stories.
Get ghosted.
Drink. Switch to bourbon if you’re a writer;
red wine if you’re a Christian;
a spritzer if fundamentalist.
Eat salad the next day. No bread,
just quinoa or some other grain
no one can spell.
Dream of cookies
and chocolate.
Of love.
Pray, this time on your knees,
to get published in the New Yorker,
to get tenured and a book deal
about politics or witches
or fucking witches.
Be ironic. Repent.
Repeat as necessary.
Header photograph © Sarah Huels.