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| Image by Jackie via Flickr |
Stained glass shards
Cut my heart.
Mary's brown eyes
Draw real blood.
I mourn her
Unattainable ideal
Of womanhood.
Black-robed men
With collars high,
Tell me when
I may speak,
Where I may stand,
What I may do, and
What I may wear
When I'm doing it.
I'd hide in a cave
Like David
But the man after
God's own heart
Would be lying in
wait,
Watching me bathe.
"I'm not like
other guys,"
Says the still small
Voice,
Soft as a robin's
breast,
Rich as mother's
milk,
Commanding as
Orion's knife.
So Holy Week
Brings me back
Through sanctuary
doors.
Thursday night
All is purple
Like royalty,
Like the bruise
That drew
My Savior's blood.
Friday sings the
blues.
Women wail,
But they stay.
Their grief slays,
But they stay
Anyway.
The hot wax smell
Draws me in,
Draws me down the
center aisle
To the table laden
With candles, bread
And grape juice.
Most of me stays
In the back pew.
The rest of me lies
At the table:
Faint,
Defeated
By my own hand,
Needing to be fed
By the body and
blood.
We eat and drink.
We are all
Women at the well:
Exposed, relieved,
We sigh
As our lies
Die.
Judith C Evans © 2017
