Olákìtán T. Aládésuyì
Sinner, lover, righteous
let us pray, a silent supplication to
gods we cannot have. let us wrap
legs around their waist in humble adoration
let them whistle in glee at this worship
our arms tucked behind their back
let us have a lemon to suckle for every time they answered our prayers
and one more to cleanse self
what it knows
of sin and death and leaving and breaking
let us have a climax so high we couldn't reach it if tried
a hill for the crucifix, an altar for the offering
let us have movement and brethren thumping brethren on the back
my god! washed up priest without a sacrifice
a moon to bless our brothers fallen by the wayside
if all else fails, then let us hold each other, gentle,
with hands tender as a monk in prayer
for this is love, that a hand be found
pressed upon your back in the middle of the night
and if the hand be found burdensome,
that you would draw up your breath and accept
this offering
for this is your life now, that you find yourself god
in the hallowed halls of memory—
your memory, our memory
for this is your life—that you leave god
there, in the dark stillness of the night
your feet finding the path to a beginning so old it ended already
and what if there is no end to this beginning?
no god in the dead of the night, no sacrifice, no offerings
then let us make god in our own likeness
round and soft and bristling with passion
let us find god in the rise and fall of our own voice
and forget that we once worshipped at another's feet.
gods we cannot have. let us wrap
legs around their waist in humble adoration
let them whistle in glee at this worship
our arms tucked behind their back
let us have a lemon to suckle for every time they answered our prayers
and one more to cleanse self
what it knows
of sin and death and leaving and breaking
let us have a climax so high we couldn't reach it if tried
a hill for the crucifix, an altar for the offering
let us have movement and brethren thumping brethren on the back
my god! washed up priest without a sacrifice
a moon to bless our brothers fallen by the wayside
if all else fails, then let us hold each other, gentle,
with hands tender as a monk in prayer
for this is love, that a hand be found
pressed upon your back in the middle of the night
and if the hand be found burdensome,
that you would draw up your breath and accept
this offering
for this is your life now, that you find yourself god
in the hallowed halls of memory—
your memory, our memory
for this is your life—that you leave god
there, in the dark stillness of the night
your feet finding the path to a beginning so old it ended already
and what if there is no end to this beginning?
no god in the dead of the night, no sacrifice, no offerings
then let us make god in our own likeness
round and soft and bristling with passion
let us find god in the rise and fall of our own voice
and forget that we once worshipped at another's feet.
Commentary
Olákìtán on "Sinner, lover, righteous":
When I wrote "Sinner, lover, righteous," I was thinking about how women navigate romantic relationships in a patriarchy, the things women have to sacrifice just to have love/companionship. Then it waxed religious for me and I started to think about how my former religion often juxtaposed the relationship between god and his followers with the relationship between a wife and husband, putting the man as god and the woman as his follower—or subject, in this case. Against the backdrop of that, I decided to write about women leaving all that systematic discrimination behind and finding a new way to be, one that involved having a god that was just like us because if there has to be a god, why not me?
What’s stopping god from being in my image and likeness?
When I wrote "Sinner, lover, righteous," I was thinking about how women navigate romantic relationships in a patriarchy, the things women have to sacrifice just to have love/companionship. Then it waxed religious for me and I started to think about how my former religion often juxtaposed the relationship between god and his followers with the relationship between a wife and husband, putting the man as god and the woman as his follower—or subject, in this case. Against the backdrop of that, I decided to write about women leaving all that systematic discrimination behind and finding a new way to be, one that involved having a god that was just like us because if there has to be a god, why not me?
What’s stopping god from being in my image and likeness?
Biography
Photography by Ṣògo Ọládélé
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Olákìtán is a writer who works as a Software Developer/ Data Analyst by day and writes at odd hours. Her work has appeared in Prairie Schooner, Watershed Review, Memento, Agbowó Art, Kalahari review, The Lit Quarterly, Newfound, and others. She won the Lawrence Foundation Award for best story in Prairie Schooner in 2019.
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