I pray like I floss my teeth.
and with considerable guilt.
It's as if God is the great dentist in the sky,
rubbing his gloved hands together in gleeful anticipation
of smugly judging me
for my plaque and gingivitis.
The voice is hot and loud in my ear.
Dirty fingers push and pull at my lips.
I whip my head from side to side,
tendons taut and screaming.
through teeth clenched so hard they crack
no . . . no . . .
No, I don't pray as much as I should.
Or floss often enough, for that matter.
Both leave a bad taste in my mouth.
A conflation poem for Meeting the Bar at dVerse