it used to be a church
of saccharine trust
I remember father´s insipid smile
and his feverish eyes as he gazed upon me
“pray, my child, pray,” he would say
whilst clutching the rosary around his flushed neck
“under the watch of God you shall find that your sins vanish”
the beads spilled from his fingers´ and
clicked against the others
incongruously
do I need my sins washed away? I wanted to know
they are part of me and are sewed
onto my skin, meshed
so skillfully to my identity
that an ocean could not render them
obsolete
why should anyone else touch something
that is such a profound part of me?
but I prayed and said nothing
words rose to my lips mechanically
while faith crumbled down
I met a girl at camp at seventeen
with mosquito-bitten skin and long blond hair
that hung across her cheeks like
curtains waiting
to be drawn and reveal
a wonderful play
I learnt that she had parents who didn’t care
the curve of her cheeks fitted like a puzzle piece
into the space below my collar bone
I learnt that she was scared of the inscrutable future
and that she loved sunflowers
all this I learnt
hungrily and keenly
listening to her sorrows and joys with loving ears
she heard me in turn
while we leaned against one another,
eating watermelon popsicles that
dripped and traced our veins
I spoke of things I was terrified about,
of frustration, disappointment, and anger
and she said nothing but sat with
her skin scorching hot against mine
and glowing eyes
despite all the time under
the watchful gaze of god
and reconciliation
that was the first time I felt
clean
summer passed too quickly
and we departed with no tears,
only thin mouths and desperate fingers
that clenched and squeezed against
one another’s, hoping for one more second
the church has been abandoned
not enough funding
where is father?
no one knows
I suppose I should thank him for all the times
he has prayed for me
even if they were done
loudly
I will never pray for my daughter
who adores sunflowers
and can make me feel at peace
just like her mother.