The Pilgrimage

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It was a Sunday when my father left us.

 

I remember because grandma’s pot roast breathed life into

the neighborhood, my mother wept in utter perfection

 

          grieving the loss of herself.

 

Today, I am declared woman by auntie who

whispers in my ear that I can finally get another piercing

      

          and I laugh as if the rising burn feminine in name isn’t enough.

 

I am speaking of everyday occurrences. Mama’s hand trembles but

only under the sun. And I—her fragile, fragmented memory of God—

        

          wonder if we ever really had a chance to be holy.

 

A boy takes my hand and I can tell by the way that he looks at my palm. He knows

that I am sunken water—a myriad of bloody, unhealed wounds. To build a life with me

 

          is to drench the scars of my mother in salt before bed every night.

 

The day after Sabbath, Pastor preaches a special message for the girls. I cover my head in flaming red cloth, limp legs hidden beneath mama’s old skirt. I vow to write

   

          an ode to the Sisters whose shame was an act of self-preservation.

 

On Sunday, a girl walks past what is left of her shadow. Darkness covered in 

black. Ain’t it a shame? I imagine what her face looked like before it

   

          metamorphosed into seething chagrin. Tears fading into the dust like magic.

 

They told us we were angels beneath the reeking filth. Nothing

is a woman without that scent, you know. I prayed that I would be

 

          clean. clean. clean.

 

How sad it must be to be

woman.

woman breathing.

woman breathing in memory.

The little boy chastises me, feet dangling

in the pew.

 

I am walking to sacred rhythms, I tell him.

Of nomadic Magdalenes who touched God

before they saw him. walking.

Of girls dreaming myths under high tides

walking.

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