THE BLASPHEMER'S BENEDICTION

By Gabrielle Munslow

So I bend my knee—

the faithful kneel in the presence of the greater good.

The embittered Eucharist

wisps away

during the final benison.

So I kneel on a bed of nails,

much like your halo of horns—

devotion shaped by punishment,

grace barbed in its design.

Hot black wax drips between my breasts,

baptises me in blasphemy.

I rise, ash-smudged,

smelling of candle smoke and salt,

mouth still sweet with disbelief.

I turn my head toward the other mourners.

I realise I am at a funeral pyre.

In the ashes

lie the remnants of my life.

Combustion is only chemistry,

yet I am reborn by it.

I see the ashes rise—

my perceived sins,

never mine to carry.

My sex, my race, my sexuality, my gender—

these are not sins;

they are sacraments.

A commemoration of sanctitude

for the overlooked,

a celebration of heterogeneity.

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