Monday, January 16, 2012
My forearms brace, I rest my temple against the cool tiles.
The memories cascade as hot water runs down my back.
Off white, ecru, eggshell, ivory, every shade but lily. Lily was reserved for the good.
The girls who knew their place, the girls who stayed closed.
Standing firm and bright was just a facade.
The golden strands of faith tarnished.
I believed they would hold me up.
I believed the generation before me.
As the incense burned and the wafer melted I trusted.
Verses droned on and beads clicked.
Bless me father, I am not worthy.
The golden strands wrapped and smothered til the breath was gone along with my child.
The water runs cold.