Talking Sheep

Half asleep, I float in the Protestant
church. I am unmoved by the minister's
drone, unconcerned with the Repent! Repent!
that the Sunday service administers.
I stare at the ceiling and count the ribs
of that hollow cavity, sacred crib.

In my dreams there is a meadow where
a flock of sheep graze, undisturbed, on long,
sweet grasses and clover. The lord is their
shepherd. They shall not want. He is strong.
He leads them with a rod and staff in hand,
blind faith until they reach the Promised Land.

And I, too. I, too, am a sheep, but lost.
I can find no comfort in repression.
I cannot praise the power of the cross
nor can I feel guilt for my transgressions.
Yet I'll sing my praises, my hymns. I'll holler
like one of the flock, a proper follower,

that no one ever sees beneath my skin
that black, black woolly sheep that lives within.
Allelujah. Allelujah.

Baa! Baa! Baa!

February 11-13, 1990
Background art created by Brandi Gabrielle Hubiak