three ex-pentecostal poems – Bree Atkins

May 18, 2026

1. hookup in the key of police procedural

“Maybe we pray on our knees because the lord only listens when we’re this close to the devil.”
—untitled (blue, green, and brown): oil on canvas: mark rothko: 1952 by ocean vuong

i’ve been saved six times but maybe
this one will stick. we
tangle in a corner bed and i am pray-
ing you turn the channel before long. on
the tv, someone shrieks as our
bodies close in, knees
slotting thighs. i ignore omens because
i’m not that religious anymore. on the
tv, the killer makes a cop dig his own grave, ask the lord
for forgiveness. when you ask who else i say it’s only
you, try not to flinch at your laugh. god listens,
i remember, try to push down. sees everything. when
the cop misquotes genesis, we’re
in too deep for me to point it out. this
is the price, i think, and you interrupt to say you’re close.
when it’s my turn, you claim to
work a clopen as the
killer pleads insanity. he, too, blames it on the devil.

2. alabama bapticostal

after leaving, i missed the music most.
            before it was unbearable, before it
came to
            deconstruction, i sat
each sunday, watched my
            father perform, gripping his
guitar’s neck and raising his other
            hand in the air.
i know who goes before me, i know who stands behind,
            jesus, i’ll pray for anything,
keeling, oil-anointed, just
            let me into your kingdom. i can curb
my appetite.
            nothing formed against me shall stand. swallowing salt, swallowing
overwhelming, never-ending, reckless love,
            praying even if god can’t hear
queers,
            repenting because
sinners fall on deaf ears, but
            there i feigned
unity with the congregation,
            voice louder than the rest,
waymaker, miracle worker, promise keeper, light in the darkness.
            xenially blessed to tears i
yearned for something beyond
            zeal, beyond biblical jargon. i am my own strength, my own redeemer.
amen.

3. communion at the queer space cowboy party

i kneel for no god until the jungle juice
hits and i genuflect at the feet
of a stranger in a different stranger’s house in
a strange city in a strange state in a mesh
t-shirt in platform crocs in a hot
pink cowboy hat and i am at the feet
of jesus with nipple rings jesus with top
surgery scars jesus with a costco baguette in
the left hand and a double magnum of
red wine in the right jesus who doesn’t
know my name and asks
do you want to be saved and tips
the community barefoot toward my
open mouth faster than i can
swallow and jesus dribbles down my
chin over my tits and jesus
wipes my mouth with
stale bread and i suck
his thumb when he puts it to
my tongue and i am closer to
god than ever before