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Afraid of the Smudge

We woke, alone,
in the tiny room where
older cousins once whispered,
played our bodies like toys.

Diesel spewed choking curtains
between bare trees and moving shadows,
our absent parents at icy dawn
like creeping black wraiths.

Beyond these walls,
orchard smudge pots fumed.
Guilt tattled in crimson tongues
to the ghostly night field.

Chill windows burned
with catechism reminders,
martyrs cooked alive
for trusting acts of pure faith.

Sainthood

The afternoon
my baby sister died,
Nonna pulled me to my knees,

commanded I repent
childhood jealousy,
beg the empty air for forgiveness.

The four days she lived,
I waited till mother slept,
furtively put my avenging hand

between crib bars,
found her tiny fingers,
secretly pinched them.

Later, I ripped my nails
welcomed the way bright
agony eclipsed hidden sin.

I pushed my fist through
windows, beat my head
against walls until it bled.

Since then, every boss
has admired
my limitless drive.

I tell them saints broken
by torture were my
Catholic role models.

© All Copyright, Jennifer Lagier.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.