Family of Random Churches by Julene Tripp Weaver

Mother did not find me holy,

Holy holy holy,

Allen Ginsberg wrote.

He proclaimed our world holy—

to the asshole—a word

I never heard my mother use 

till I rebelled—and she cursed me

with words I never knew she knew.

A church goer, she sought 

peace of mind at a Baptist church—

dunked, she insisted

  I get dunked, too, 

her way to save me—my head 

immersed, my hair ruined. No, 

I said—enough—I was sprinkled 

as a baby, at my father’s

Methodist church.

  Firm against her intrusion—

  I found my own church, 

Congregationalist. I was never an easy 

child, she said. Nothing smooth 

between us. After Dad died 

she gave up. Moved us 

to her childhood home in the city, 

let go her independence—

her driver’s license, swimming.

Unable to live alone—the same way 

I need a partner. Avoidant, I resist

  love, push away anyone

  I need. Mother and I 

never compatible, each buried

under pain—

we lost the love of our lives.

Paralyzed from a stroke

at a nursing home, 

she settled into watching Fox

  became Fundamentalist.

  Our Holy war over.

Julene Tripp Weaver, a psychotherapist and writer in Seattle, worked in AIDS services for twenty-one years. Her third poetry collection, truth be bold—Serenading Life & Death in the Age of AIDS, was a finalist for the Lambda Literary Awards, and won the Bisexual Book Award. Her next book, Slow Now With Clear Skies, will be published by MoonPath Press. She was a Jack Straw Writing Fellow (2022-2023). Recent anthologies including a poem of hers: I Sing the Salmon Home, and Rumors Secrets & Lies: Poems about Pregnancy, Abortion & Choice. Find her online at www.julenetrippweaver.com