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Door-to-Door Afterlife

Jean Wickham


A doorway will do
For a pulpit
Or a soap box at least,
And you have me cornered
In my own home.

The venom from your fangs
Soaks the words,
As you push them out of your mouth,
Towards me.
That name becomes poison
When used to justify.

I’m an easier target
If you think I’m already
Inclined to believe,
But I’m not so easily moved
By that one, two, or three syllables,
When it travels in your voice.

So I just admit
Being a heretic.
And say it suits my lifestyle
To just make things up as I go along,
But really, it’s just safer that way.

You won’t catch me sinning
For anybody else’s sake,
But my own.
And in no one’s name.