Some thrill reverberates through my resting mind:
Oh my God
where have all the words gone?
They have fluttered away like the stained glass lights into stone.
They dance on the dark gothic wall,
fractured rays of sunlight transfigured into colored pictures of the saints.
The Upper East Side housewife socialites congregate in the congregation at Mass, congratulating each other during the sign of peace on their blowouts, Met Opera board positions, and name brand hand bags. Their legs are slender to the point of desiccation.
I feel my hips tickle the edges of my dress, and I have the satisfaction of knowing that I am much larger and more vivid than they are. My body is substantial, full, and full of life. I watch them, cognizant of everything I'm wearing is either gift or Target brand. I am not an UES socialite, but I feel every inch alive and beautiful, and that counts for something, I imagine. I can feel my flesh rippling and growing. I have not shrunk or withered. Not one bit. I am still bulging, fertile, expanding, finding the right balance between tight muscle and brown cellulose.
It is good to be young and overgrown.
We can all be pruned in middle age.
There is more than enough time for all of that.
God, forgive me, I think, as I walk behind their pinstripe legs.
God, forgive my doughnuts.
Forgive my distractions and my bawdy humor.
Forgive my pride and arrogance.
Forgive my plump calves.
Forgive my salty tongue.
I reach for the cup and cry: Oh Lord, save me.
Save me from myself
from the desert silence inside of me
from the pit of loneliness that washes over me
and bruises me
like high tide hitting coastal shelf.
And only this blood can.
Only this blood can imbibe me with new life.
I drink it, deeply--
like a lover sipping her beloved's kisses on her tongue--
it tastes like humility
The sky looks like grace tonight.
Hey mami, how you doin' cries the street man cat caller
I laugh, because he does not know that
his heart and mine temple holy spirits,
and beat quickly with Christ's blood.
The man in the car,
the women in the pew,
the tired human with the bag collection in the back of church--
we hunger for Him together.