WORD Poetry Feature: “Saint/Sinner” by Chloé Lind

The stars upon my chest

have been sewn with holy needle and thread.

I am no specter of Satan, but a vessel

of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.

I am but an innocent lamb,

patiently awaiting the parting of the russet sea.

The holy water, desiccated.

The communion wafer, gone to crumbs.

My ankles remain shackled to a chain of sin.

Yet my faith is intact and I pine for salvation.

One day, God’s green pastures will be mine for the grazing.

I am a saint.

O Lord, 

My tresspasses are writ large,

yet Holy Scripture that sacrilegiously, with needle and ink,

is inscribed upon my flesh.

I am descended from a Talmudic sage,

Yet my lips know not a word.

I am a hedonist, without regard to repercussion,

fated to suffer a series of Pyrrhic victories.

On Holy Days, I practice sanctimony,

yet I lament the void that envelops my inner sanctuary.

Today, I stand at the seventh terrace of Purgatory.

I am a sinner.