Christ Lives On

in the wrinkles of
my mother’s hands
the smell of
fresh roasted coffee
taste of red wine under
a meteor shower.

In the day that
every bridge in Pittsburgh
reflected in clear water
a false sky below
our speeding car,
ripples spattered with
those impressionistic stars
and Owl City on the radio
singing about fireflies
which we called
lightnin’ bugs and crushed
in makeshift mortars
to make our soles glow

and isn’t it funny how church beat
that whimsy right the hell out of us
with those altar calls
healing hands laid firm on our backs
hard pews so rigid against
the flex of our spines.

We were wild things once shooting
stars out of the sky with slingshots
fashioned by our grandfathers
from forked branches
and handling snakes with forked
tongues scenting the crisp
garden air.

The thing they never told us
about being born again was
they expected us, all Christlike,
to die first

Jay Orlando (he/they) is a trans, queer, folk punk poet from the region where the Appalachians kiss the Rust Belt. He proudly earned a dual degree in Religious Studies and English in 2016 and since then has been churning out poetry like a tub of butter. His work has been published in Ouch! Collective, Hobo Camp Review, New Words {Press}, and Red Branch Review among many others. When not writing, Jay enjoys going out to karaoke night, performing at local open mics, and collecting comic books. He lives with his partner, cats, and two housemates in a college town that shares a name with a state. You can follow his work on Instagram @jaybird.orlando