By Sarah Stoltzfus Allen

are the prayers of unbelievers
heard?
dead saints whisper,
bouncing their doxologies
against cold stone.
and i am
walking on eggshells in Your
oppressive, silent house
feeling the anxious spiders
stir in my gut.

even when Your words
call for peace,

i feel no arms
of rest.
only black, leather ropes
meant to keep
me
in
line.

i suppose there is
safety in
regulations,

but not
freedom.