Nuns Out Guns Out

Evan Williams

I always wear a tank top to mass to show off my guns. Every day of the week except Sunday I curl and press and raise and row. Every Sunday when I fold my hands together to pray, the priest points to me and proclaims, Now that is a rock upon which to build a church.

I resent this, for I am not a rock but the church upon which rocks are built, training the nuns at the town gym. Every day of the week except Sunday I lead them in curls and presses and raises and rows. The nuns and I talk about how miserable long sleeves are. They work so hard only to conceal themselves. I can see their frowns at mass, the veins in their brawny biceps twitching at the priest’s pride.

On a Sunday in Ordinary Time I am at mass showing off my guns. The nuns’ deltoids ripple in their habits. Then, one unfolds her praying hands, and the priest crumbles to chalk. Another follows suit and the crucifix with Christ’s twiggy body clangs to the floor. With each of their unfolding prayers, a pillar cracks. 

They stand and file out the door together. I unfold my hands and follow. The sun shines on their ascetic aesthetic, sleeves torn to hell.

Evan Williams is a poet and essayist from the cornfields of the Midwest. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in DIAGRAM, Pleiades, and Joyland, among others. He is the author of the chapbook CLAUSTROPHOBIA, SURPRISE! (HAD Chaps, 2022), and can be found on Twitter @evansquilliams.