The bell rings, half-dismissal, half-warning. I pocket
my rosary beside a half-open lipgloss & fumble with
my left earring: a gold flower, miniature as accident’s
passing. The right is a safety pin, stolen from denim
jackets I only wear in mirrors. The bathroom’s fluores-
cents flicker as a blessing. A girl walks in, mascara
running holy as a stained viper. I lower, press palms to
cheek acnes & whisper forgiveness into my knuckles.
In theology, they say the soul is male, even in women.
I take notes pink-penned & suck cap ink like penance.
Actually, Mr. Lawrence, I’ve memorized the verses but
never the meanings—how one becomes a psalm, a
parable, a bruise no one bothers to bless. At home,
Mother calls me while folding laundry as scripture, socks
paired, creases smoothed into silence. Unlike me. She
asks if a boy has ever crowded me into lockers &
parted my thighs as tender, falling meat. I say no &
trace the telephone wire as jaguar’s vein. Rewind.
Last night, I kissed a girl who wore glitter like armor.
Exchanging, she willowed my forehead & said,
You’re not sinned for blooming in the wrong season,
her breath clinging to my collar as an untranslated hymn.
In Georgia, summer heat fevers like a sermon—slow, certain.
Before the church I was sat: chair folding, knees bare,
sweat-rigidly spined. The pastor opened his palms like
a wound. Child, confess. And behind me, the congregation
swallowed their tongues just long enough to spit.
Unclean, unnatural, hell-bound. The AC choked my throat
a contraction. If God was really present, He never spoke.
I told Grandma, once. July bubbling, mosquitoes haloed
the porchlight. She sucked on the buzzing, squinted, then spat:
you might as well get raped. I only folded into lawn chairs,
& watched flies smoulder themselves clean into bulbs.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t burn. Not then. Today, I press a Post-it
to the bathroom stall: You are holy in the whole of you.
The ink bleeds, the heart stubborns into remains. By lunch,
it was peeled. Yet somewhere between the graffiti & gospel,
it made sense to me. Later, the bell rings as resurrection.
I rewrite, smaller, & re-press. I let it wait. I let it become a prayer.
Penny Wei is from Shanghai and Massachusetts. She can be seen on Dialogist, The Weight Journal, Inflectionism and has been recognized by The Word Works and Longfellow House. She also has a passion for journalism.
