Christian Nationalists, Friday Night

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Christian Nationalists, Friday Night


Down here we have the real ones, 

like my friend’s co-worker, Justin,


who told Chase to summon his troop

of exiles while he called his cadre of men 


for the chance at a kind of Southern 

symposion, a Deep-South dialectic. 


Their stance was largely foreign 

to me, but I went for love of Chase


and interest in the type of militant 

hermeneutic maneuvers required 


to mold Christ’s face to Washington’s, 

pulling in about fifteen minutes late


to about fifteen people milling around 

a beer cooler in Justin’s backyard


like Syrian women at a well. Knowing

just one other, I shook hands and tried


like hell to look the type who cared

to remember their names while scanning 


all the same for some sort of sign—

a glint in the eye, a certain length of beard—


to make clear who was here with my people 

and who came from the other side. 


I didn’t get very far before it was time

and all of us were called to the fire.

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