The Seismic Gospel


And then god says let there be twerk

The cornets start to whistle a Ying Yang tune

And bodies built of the moon 

fill the night with enough prayer

to pull the bones of my ancestors 

from the dirt to let them start an electric slide

See god

They knew Africa would be built outta bass

A small piece of hymn we could postcard in our thighs

and carrier pigeon down to our kin

What a blessing we have

To tell so many stories with our asses

Our rhythm be the plot of every chapter god wrote 

for us it didn’t take seven days for god to give us this quake

We, children of the soil,

we’re made seismic and ever breaking 

ever breaking 

every holy begets this dance


Jason B. Crawford (They/He) is a black, nonbinary, bi-poly-queer writer born in Washington DC, raised in Lansing, MI. His debut chapbook collection Summertime Fine is out through Variant Lit.


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