Hypnosis

Light refracted through clumsy stained glass
is playing on his frown, special effects, sinister.
This is where I grew up, God’s gaff. Class
of ’88. I’m back. The belly of the Minister,

that overfull binbag, slumps. That scowl, a scrawl,
illegible. Our stares, south magnets, are repelling.
I want my parents; to puke; that’s all.
If sweat be rain, he’s drizzling, telling

me, “Lord, will forgive.” But will Santa?
I split the hymn numbers, numeral by numeral,
add them together. Some awkard banter.
Cold as porno. Memory unlocked. Aw, no. The humoral

mess. Clothes. My eyes, taps left on. My arm,
trying to hug my own body (boneless). Trust,
a hoody fleeing, giving me the finger. Only harm
done, a key scratch on my texture. Hurt. Just.