Drumline

by Stacy Kestwick

White-hot jealousy pierced my chest and I wanted to roar my displeasure. She. Was. Mine.

“You know,” my voice was deep, husky, as I whispered to her, “just because I promised to behave, doesn’t mean you have to. Feel free to touch me wherever you want, gorgeous.”

Dear sweet rosy-cheeked baby Jesus and all the saints in heaven. His mouth needed to come with a warning label. Danger. Highly flammable.

“I won’t bite. Unless I think you’ll like it.”

Dear Peter, Paul, and all the apostles, even the shitty one, Judas.

Get your rest tonight. You’re gonna need it, because my imagination is one horny motherfucker.”

“Leave. For the love of all the little fat cherub angels playing harps in the sky, just leave.”

Dear sweet mother Mary and her perfect virgin womb.

Dear fearless gravity-defying Jesus walking on water.

nocturne

I ground out a primal sound that every man since the beginning of time would recognize. Mine.

Dear holy angels in heaven who kept track of all these white lies on a never-ending tally sheet. Sides

you didn’t just abandon the ones you loved when it wasn’t pretty. When it wasn’t fucking convenient. That’s when you loved more. You loved harder.

Dear sweet gilt-winged guardian angels on call on this shittiest of nights, please don’t let it be broken.

Dear sweet miraculous Jesus who never peacocked in His holy life.

Dear sweet heavenly Father who forgave those who profited from other’s misfortunes. If