Saint Marie

Saint Marie

By Isabella Chiang

There’s no God, not in this world 

at least I haven’t seen him myself. Haven’t felt his fingers touch mine.

Not yet and perhaps 

not ever. 

My petitions remain unanswered; 

guilt is my only inheritance. 

It lingers, there, 

over the dusted church bell, 

where cousin Rita hung herself whole. 

Where terror struck 

the limbs of the eight-legged calf, morsels of life, 

choked into a frightening quiet. 

Where I prayed and prayed 

to be subdued into a tender and sudden death. 

The fact is, you will see me and forever think 

that I am disgusting. 

You will think of the stake, 

where the half-living lamb twitched 

to its unfateful, trembling death. 

Ruined, impure. 

You will think of me and see 

vulvas and unshaven legs. Nasty things. 

Dirt and hot, curdling rage 

long stuck beneath my fingertips 

that leaves behind only tears, 

scratched markings all over my palms. 

Pure, virginal, Mary Magdalene, 

she begs for the torture. 

Pearls trail her cheeks 

as she clasps her hands together and pleads 

for a sign. 

For a holy thunder. 

For wickedness and the spurting of a fig tree 

and the succulent scent of deception. 

But there is nothing; 

an answer will never come. Forever, your maker will reject you,

keeping you close all the same. 

Can you distinguish your dreams from reality?

Or will you pull the trigger? 

Begin the long walk home? 

Somehow, there is a comfort 

in leaning into the scent of burning wood.

How it only reminds you of home. Calloused knuckles,

his beaten, worn hand. The long road ahead.

The toil. The worship. 

It will tear you apart. It will love you. 

It will be nothing but good.