Post offices are transient,
without the bustle
street corners have.
It seems I’m only here
when I need to lose something.
Or find someone
I didn’t need.
There is cold familiarity
in her countenance.
It is hard to forget the face,
the form, that formed you,
though God knows I have tried.
God knows this is largely
his fault.
My childhood was spent
sitting dutifully in church pews,
singing other birds’ songs,
trying to turn water into wine
and only getting grape juice.
She wouldn’t accept any miracles
that weren’t of the trinity,
nor any that didn’t have
an alcohol content.
She believed herself
to be 75% holy water;
since water is 75% of the body,
she believed herself to be
¾ the body of Christ.
I was, I still am, Devil
in her eyes.
I can feel the disgust
burning, hotter than any bush
Moses could find,
through the back of my head
when she sees the ring on my finger.
Because men may lie to men
with fantasies of higher power,
but may never lie with them.
She avoids eye contact
like she’s suddenly interested
in stamps with the fervor of a collector,
or someone that cares enough
to write letters.
The letter I am holding
claims false holiness.
I drop it on the stack of
brown paper packages
that she carries
better than the weight
of moral superiority.
“I forgive you, Mother.”
She doesn’t look at me
when she spits it:
“Murky water can’t cleanse a wound;
a sin can’t forgive mine.”