My cup

After hearing a sermon on Numbers 5,

we pass the line of blue church windows

and drive into the dark.

The clamor of kids in the backseat becomes bleating,

the stench of blood and roasting flesh.

I stumble as I’m spewed forward:

Hester Prynne before the priest.

The cup of the curse rots the inside out:

lukewarm water mixed with dust

causing bitter pain.

My cup is poured,  

then passed:

the King’s own son drinks the dregs

of the blotting out of ordinances against me.

I look up.

The Dipper looms large,

runs over.