A LITANY OF FIRSTS AND LASTS & APOSTATIZING GOD by Nix Carlson

A LITANY OF FIRSTS AND LASTS

you don’t hold many of my firsts, and i fear, you won’t have many of my lasts: kiss, love, 

hearTbreak (hell, you didn’t even pass me my first cigarette). you occupy every in-

between, undefined. notable for, if for nothing else, the string stretching between our 

chests, compelling “hey, you” to light up my screen, even though seven hours is too far 

for a midnigHt rendezvous. i suppose you were the first to influence my library, blue and 

orange and a body with scores upon scOres. the first to label my poems as frivolous 

(jokes on you, all of my worst poems are inscribed with your name). the first to set fire to 

a quarter-century of internalized bullshit with a single intoxicated sMile. my first 

narcissist tortured mind, owner of a silver tongue. the first drunk sex, that night i 

remember only by the ecstasy of your breath moving over me in the shape of my name. 

the first to rouse me from my sleep, trek an hour to collect every shAttered piece of your 

glass heart from the sidewalk. the first to blame a blank future on how many cheSts i’ve 

made my home (nevermind the truth – you are rigid black and white, meanwhile i am 

every shade of gray and bleeding red). 

the first one to get away.

APOSTATIZING GOD

Which am I? Created in Your image? Or an abomination destined for Hell?

Can’t be both.

I’ve read Your rules,

Your doctrine and commandments.

Full of mistranslations and fabricated transgressions,

You alter the path to salvation, just to see me trip and bleed.

Sadistic God, keep me wrapped up in false pretenses.

Watch me turn to Lilith.

You are drunk deontology,

Messy curls,

Proud disdain.

And she is feminist rants,

Combat boots,

Deliberate solace.

I’ve met You in the Empyrean,

Your name on my lips like a prayer.

Your omnipotence and divine providence, 

Terrified to release control, you decide my fate on my behalf.

Oh, absent Father, you don’t know how to listen.

Hear me call Hell my home.

You are bitter black coffee at dusk,

A hunger for bread to satiate,

A bed of broken glass to rest at night.

And she is warm tea during a summer storm,

A bounty of sweet pomegranates,

A salve that numbs a thousand cuts.

Suffering is religious if done right – 

You made me Your most devout disciple. 

You hate the sinner and I am in love with the sin –

You are not my savior. 

Unforgiving God, voyeur in my bedroom.

Now I kneel at the altar of her hips. 

You are tongues of flame burning my thighs,

A stream of red staining my lips,

A hand wrapped around my throat and buzzing in my ears.

And she is sweet release granted by steady hands,

A mouth of divinity pressed to mine,

Silk ties around my wrists and the stroke of soft tongues.

…Was there ever a way for me to win?

Fine. You’ll condemn me either way. I’ll hasten my ascent.