Port of Entry

COHORT 2

In the blue car with Texas plates,

my water breaks down the middle, bloodwine mosaic

puddled beneath the glove compartment. Mary Magdalene

on her knees at the rest stop, pried open by concrete

and wailing murder for mercy, folded fetus

of miscarried justice in her palms. How many borders

have we crossed? How many red lights did we run

to get here? Please, John,

I am not God.

I am a girl.

I cannot be both.

I hack up the Lord’s Prayer like a toothbrush

against my uvula, and still I lift my hand

and compel the congregation

to join in the refrain. They carry me out,

etherize me beneath glassy stars,

stick their fat fingers up my cervix

and wonder why I’ve split. Some days,

when my skin’s worn down like denim

and stuffing rolls from me like thunder,

I wonder how I got here and why, hometown like

a wound that never healed,

a nosedive into water

or a wildfire in a field, God,

give me a drop of prevention

and not an ounce of cure —

Te amo, but this torment is

no better than we were.

Writing: Maria Gray

Music: Milou de Meij

Art: Beljita Gurung