The Holy Trinity

“Thou who art one in nature and three in persons,

Beyonce, Nicki, Rihanna,

I adore thee and give thee thanks from the depths of my misery.

Bestow upon me thy grace and thy glory and hallowed be thy name. Amen.”

The Church was no place for a woman till the heavens split open and dropped these three onto our music charts

and now, every Pink Friday, baby, you can see my halo.

At this church, we’ve chosen our own Holy Trinity

Beyoncé, our Heavenly Mother
Nicki, the Goddess of All Things
Riri, the Patron Saint of Side Eyes and Not Giving a Single Fuck

because we needed a change and wouldn’t you want to worship a God that looked like you?
We pray in dope beats and cross Pink Prints over our Hearts and for communion,

we pour it up pour it up.

Say goodbye to purity rings and hello to doing whatever and whomever the fuck you want,

put a ring on it if you’d like but we don’t want no rude boys here, I’m sorry, but black femme identified only,

like I said,
wouldn’t you want to worship a God that looked like you?

Turn to your neighbor,
say, “You’re a boss ass bitch.”
Turn to your neighbor,
say, “My anaconda do.

Bow your heads and pray.
Pray that your eyeliner never runs. Pray that your heart and your ass gets fatter.
May your weave always be on point.
May you never get caught in the rain without your umbrella, -ella, -ella.
May your thoughts always be rachet.
May your feminism always include Us.

The Holy Spirit abounds through the church and my people catch the Spirit in their bodies.
No tongues are spoken; only twerking allowed here
only brown hands on knees
only brown hands up high—
for once, not in a “Don’t Shoot” way.
Brown hands up high like how all the single ladies put their hands up,
like flexin’ with y’all’s hands up,
like starships are meant to fly,
high like diamonds in the sky,
brown hands up high like salvation,
brown hands like freedom.

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