by Erin Lynch
Standing there with your holier than thou cardboard posters,
Flashing brighter than a NO VACANCY sign at a dive motel.
With your Psalm Sunday ripped dresses and wine stained teeth
Sitting high upon your pulpit you preach to me
about what I should do.
You love all, just as God wants you to,
But the devil,
Seen on your naked skin,
Under your Sunday best,
In your black as night eyes,
Heard in your shrieking voice,
The burden is mine and no one else’s.
I, just as he, will have to walk down this hard pavement alone.
Your shouting and screaming, in this hot August heat,
Is as heavy as the crosses on your back.
Erin Lynch is a junior at the University of Bridgeport, majoring in creative writing. She is an accomplished, award-winning journalist who has been published in various newspapers throughout the states of Connecticut and Montana. Her poetry has also been published in the University of Bridgeport’s literary magazine, “Groundswell.” Lynch is a writer at heart and a lover of the gritty, dirty and off the beaten path works from those within the “Beat” generation such as Charles Bukowski, William S. Burroughs and the forgotten Elise Cowen.
December 1, 2009