There are snakes in the church,
and less often death,
blamed on absent faith.
White patched walls,
white faces drained of blood
in fainting spells.
The music jumps the floorboards,
and the band never ends,
only begins to get louder.
Lay on the hands;
there is a God who touches unseen.
There is a snake whose teeth marks sting.
The children here have no trouble
believing in Holy Ghosts;
they’ve seen God glisten
in dewy spiderwebs.
But the mothers clap hands and pray
that their prayers are enough.