Salsa for Jesus
Last night, I gave a lap dance to Matthew as Mark looked on.
Cigarettes fell from Mark’s lips to burn
circles in the vinyl upholstery as he yelled,
“Who wants to fight me?” to anyone
within earshot. Matthew spilled
beer on my t-shirt and begged for penance,
running sticky fingers across the rosary hanging
between my breasts – Mother Mary
full of grace and guns and roses.
The vigil joined hands to spin madly around us.
Ashes. Ashes.
Eventually, we all fall down.
Luke got caught stealing Ho-Ho’s from the Piggly Wiggly,
and his Father had to bail him out. He showed up at 2am
with an aspirin bottle full of what
he called Molly Magdalene. Waiting
for the dilation, we played truth or dare
and seven minutes in heaven, pushing
the furs out of the way to break
vows in a mothball confessional.
We did bodyshots on the kitchen counter with my mother’s
miniature teacups – until the salt burned away
our belly buttons and impure thoughts – then cleaned
the wounds with lime and holy water.
John is the best tequila girl we’ve ever had.
When we eat mexican,
we always pour an extra bowl of salsa and leave it
in the corner by the window –
mother insists we save something for Jesus.
Raphaela Moreno received a MA in Poetry from the University of Chicago and have since split time between working in higher ed and travelling, primarily in Latin America.