I went to church and he was beautiful, standing on
the pulpit, all crisp and clean, bow tie and leather shoes.
He was talking about God and I was thinking about you.
For a time I did not want to speak your name unless I uttered it
in holy places. Places where people have worshipped
there's some magic there, I thought, every color
of magic and not just the black that is my heart
your words not mine. Thanks, I mean, thank you for filling me in.
Coloring the parts that you did not know or did not like. Paintbrush
and clumsy hands painting by numbers, all mechanical.
You thought I was someone else, wanting me to be someone else.
Now, in your scorn you call me brothel-raised, say bastard child,
black-hearted black magic, but did you know
that if I knew how to conjure up spells, I would have
only enchanted you with good ones. See even now
I speak your name only in reverent prayer. There is
no magic for the faithful only mercy for the faithless.