A Mighty Fortress

The sign had three mountains on it,
stylized, the parking lot was paved in gravel.
When something inside me rose up in panic
I pushed it back down with words.
I listened to the underwater echo of my
heavy breathing,
For God has not given us the spirit of fear,

The sidewalk was stained orange
from the Carolina clay that washed over it when it rained.
but of power,
I stood in my row, hand on the back
of the chair in front of me, stuttering sounds—
sha da da da da— so they wouldn’t have to ask
what was wrong with me that I couldn’t seem to receive
the Holy Ghost.
and of love,

I wore hypoglycemia like a flack vest,
protecting me from the guilt of not fasting
and letting the paint-thinner toxins of my body
flow out in my breath.
and of a sound mind.
What we all forgot is that fear
is the warning system for danger,
but by then we had everything but snakes.

So I fought against the monster in the closet of my gut;
nobody told me that it speaks the truth.
I had learned from Western history
that if you can name something
you can conquer it.
Fear I called it. A spirit. Evil. Tempter.
My battle. My cross. My struggle.
I called it everything but my self.