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