Lana Bright, Primavera
A Good Girl Would Pray for You
Heather Haigh
Gathering brittle shards, I exult that her statue lies in ruins; the Sweet Virgin Mary turned her face away. Grimacing at the metallic tang from the red blossom on my finger, I count the squares on the calendar.
When you don’t return for five days, a seed of hope swells. Maybe your ministrations took you to another soul. Maybe another body will be subject to your holy blessings, another to be suffered unto thee, Father. Forgive us, Lord, for we have sinned.
I pause at the shrill of the telephone, strain to hear muffled voices, start at Mother’s shriek. I hover at the top of the stairs and keep listening. Ma keens. My brother, a man of the cloth, how could God be so cruel? He was a good, good man. Pa rants about that stupid bike. He should have fixed it. Ridiculous riding around with it like that, parading his humility or something. Stupid.
I swallow the words lustily and picture your twisted body, recall the smell of myself on your hands, replay the promises you extracted, shiver at your sermons about what happens to bad girls, seize the thorns of your teachings. All who die imperfectly purified will be suffered unto Purgatory, their suffering proportionate, their passage to heaven paved only by the prayers of the faithful.
I count again the blank dates that mock me and the broken Holy Mother. My rosary joins her discarded remains.
Heather Haigh
Gathering brittle shards, I exult that her statue lies in ruins; the Sweet Virgin Mary turned her face away. Grimacing at the metallic tang from the red blossom on my finger, I count the squares on the calendar.
When you don’t return for five days, a seed of hope swells. Maybe your ministrations took you to another soul. Maybe another body will be subject to your holy blessings, another to be suffered unto thee, Father. Forgive us, Lord, for we have sinned.
I pause at the shrill of the telephone, strain to hear muffled voices, start at Mother’s shriek. I hover at the top of the stairs and keep listening. Ma keens. My brother, a man of the cloth, how could God be so cruel? He was a good, good man. Pa rants about that stupid bike. He should have fixed it. Ridiculous riding around with it like that, parading his humility or something. Stupid.
I swallow the words lustily and picture your twisted body, recall the smell of myself on your hands, replay the promises you extracted, shiver at your sermons about what happens to bad girls, seize the thorns of your teachings. All who die imperfectly purified will be suffered unto Purgatory, their suffering proportionate, their passage to heaven paved only by the prayers of the faithful.
I count again the blank dates that mock me and the broken Holy Mother. My rosary joins her discarded remains.