self-portrait as a roman church

on sundays, i shrug on patterns of a roman church, godless and dusty. i intertwine my fingers with each other and bow my head, wearing a cockroach costume. the whispers of holy prayers by pastors tickle my eardrums and still after it’s conclusion, trickle into the stained round window of my ear. the cockroach stays flattened to the walls of my ear canal. the sounds are weary from bible verses, numbers stamped with poor imitations of gold. i whisper my own words copied off of others’ wishes. three summers ago, i saw a deaf man at the airport and i tried to read the eyes but ended up hearing the lips of my own mouth, losing sight of the hands singing instead of the voice. i am taught how to stay deaf from the tree’s serpents by lining tissue-thin pages with fluorescent streaks. the space in my ear gorges on the choir voices without permission. i beg my ears to stay deaf to all, to read only the mind’s song of god crafted by my imagination and magazine collages. i glue shiny paper wrinkled into waves, warping silent words. on the bible, the gold flakes off, reduced to dull shapes strung together. i prophesize escape from crucifixion, the skin of the god’s word torn from and built into feathers. on the cross, the sheep’s body opened like a mother’s birth and i sew the belly shut. if i stopped hearing, their innocent eyes will solidify, like windowpane orbs. tomorrow, i will not hear the prayers, as the serpents slither with a fruit clutched between the fangs, sweet juice trailing down their skin.