After Sunday school she had time
to reflect and journal thoughts.
Bodies are temples of God,
with the exception of the basement.
Don't go down there.
It is dirty, dark and stinky
or so they tell her to think.
She nibbles lunch as she writes.
Life is food, giving nourishment to grow,
undigested portions must be disposed.
Leaning back to reflect, she hopes
one day to write a poem about the crap.
She wants to spell the words without worry,
where there's no adolescent giggling at bodily gurgling
or disapproval of righteous religious dignitaries.
She desires to speak in metaphors
of the most common denominators,
Emotions and compassion
get bound up, backed up, built up
until they bulge and explode.
She hates cleaning up those messes.
She writes again, deal with your shit.
Then thinking, when she has had a movement,
washed and come clean, she might be
open to spend time exploring
what other precious treasures
that basement might be storing.
She closes the journal
pulling her knees up to her chest.
She dares not write or think the rest.