My mother regards my lack of religion
As a choice to abandon our native tongue,
Speaking only as a heretic now.
My faith was never meant to be a hammer upon her traditions.
How desperately I want to piece her heart back together without cutting myself
on the jaded edges of compromise.
Your religion and heart are the same–
Each a rural hometown I send postcards to now.
I don’t worship in the house you do,
And that makes it no less sacred.
You defiant daughter is not the product of a lesser God.
Sacrament is what I call every selfless act someone else has done for me.
I am baptized in the gaze of everyone who sees me as I am.
Every thank you I say is a hallelujah,
Every I love you, an Amen.