Mormons on the Beach

Mish tag

Two by two,
in black-and-white
they stand at the edge of the water—
the one area which God allows Satan to control.

For the ocean swallows immodest women in bikinis,
Sunday beachgoers,
imbibers,
for it was new wine Jesus drank,
never old.
One-pieces cover the sacred womb,
the nourishing globes.
Sundays are worship days,
holy days,
not holidays or fun days.

Water—
the weight of which is incredible—
is a dynamic character,
a purifier,
used in place of wine
to remember the blood spilt on our behalf.

Water—
clearer than plasma,
without cells,
without form,
but not without the power
to kill or heal.

Water—
used to baptize by immersion,
even as it is abused,
used to make coffee,
tea,
and other strong drink.

These two young men now bicycle
down the boardwalk through the sauna
that is Deep South Pensacola,
their calm auras
a stark juxtaposition
to the Bible wavers and screamers
with their handmade signs.

The bicycles keep them humble,
and they endure the long pants
as a form of self-flagellation.
Their soulful windows shine,
for they smoke not,
neither do they sex
or swear.
Clean living is their Windex.
They come complete with a
12-step to Heaven program—
for which copulation resulting in quiverfuls
of legitimates conceived in the covenant
is required.

Door to door,
they sell their Aryan Jesus to the self-proclaimed saved,
looking like the salt of the earth,
though their language is sweet.
They are His mouthpieces,
for God will not speak for Himself.

These handsome lures are groomed
to the perfection expected of the women
who must exemplify modesty and beauty.

Their God is a Being of flesh and bones,
His presence confined by space and time,
a Deity who once was,
as we are now;
these Saints of Latter Days are deified,
even as their Deity
is humanized.

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