To The Banished Children of Eve

To The Banished Children of Eve

It seemed, for some reason known only to you,

though enough time has gone by that I even

doubt that, you came to think the rosary beads

were evil, or in the very least, a sinful thing

to do, and so when you caught me one day

half way through the third decade, full of grace

dripping and dribbling from my bottom lip

you’d of liked to rip the whole twine and line

out of my hands and pull every black bead

out, pull the way you’d pulled my hair when

I was small, when you wanted, oh hell, I don’t know

what you wanted, but it seemed as easy

for you to grab and wrap a braid around

your fist and fingers as it was for me to hold

a small worn brown crucifix and all those Our

Fathers Hail Marys and Glory Bes.  What was

harder for me was focusing on an intention,

what to pray for without seeming too selfish,

which mystery to float off with while the raft

of my words navigated your moods and the sound

of your feet on the stairs.  So there was Joyful.

And Luminous. And Sorrowful.  And Glorious.

And to be honest, I never got past Sorrow.  And

maybe that is too dramatic, too convenient, but I

was blind to any happy martyr.  In the end I didn’t

pray at all, I just held those round as buckshot beads

beneath the covers and moved my lips in the dark.

And the little crucifix, smooth with worry,

was a mark in my palm.  And my mouth, well,

with all that not-praying in the dark, waiting for you

until you never eventually came, shed a skin

and another and another, while Hail Mary held out
a lamb caught in the thick wet bog.