portion of the artwork for Caleb Knight's poetry

Missionary Work
Caleb Knight

After my father left, finally,
we became six-days-a-week
church goers. I couldn’t

understand my mother’s need
for sanctuary until my lips
felt their first drink that summer.

Missionaries came and spoke
with such fire, of God
taking over a broken world.

I was moved to the stage,
weeping like Christ, praying
Lord, send me far from myself.

My tongue fluttered
with holy language
my mind was inventing,

my voice lifted
in angelic chorus,
hoping to echo in congregation,

but my mouth was thirstiest
for the taste of that bottle
the only God I cared to worship.


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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 59 | Spring/Summer 2022