The Evangelist by Mercedes Lawry

He inhaled the gospel, but when
he exhaled, it came out in fragments,
raggedy edges, brown splotches
for while it was inside him,
the gospel faltered and tore and skittered
to the fearsome blather that passed
for religion in this end-of-the-world town
of dried yellow fields and blue scuffed skies.

And he took it upon himself to declare
his soul chained to the throne of God
who whispered in his ear and decided
who was worthy and who was lost
to the ashes of damnation. The people
listened and made him higher than the rest.
He spoke in bold, boisterous tones
that sent shivers like clammy lizards
up and down the spines of the congregation.
He conjured fear from his fist and thrust it out
to open like a burst star raining white salvation petals
on their heads. They found ease in allowing him
to knead their minds so there was no tussle
over the creaky seesaw of right and wrong and all
that was required was to shout with gusto,
Amen, Praise Be, and assorted Hallelujahs
in the dusty Sunday air.

Mercedes Lawry has published poetry in such journals as Poetry, Nimrod, and Prairie Schooner, and three chapbooks, including, In the Early Garden with Reason, selected by Molly Peacock. She’s been nominated for a Pushcart seven times and has published short fiction, essays and stories and poems for children.