Church dress, by Gregory Hake

She wanted to take her church dress off—
It weighed on her like heavy memories
Made of synthetic fibers, too hot for summer.
She felt bound by this cloak of pretended righteousness—
Not because she was unworthy or impure
But because she dared to think.
She dared to let the wheels of her mind
Turn to the silky waters of truth
Cascading through her heart.
She knew instinctively
That the fabric of stodgy dogma
Didn’t complement her divine figure,
Yet she wore it that day—
Out of respect, or tradition, or duty,
Or for lack of the dress she saw in her dreams—
But had not yet found.