She had skylights installed for Him
who said let there be light, which burns.
Eczema, she assures me,
it is hereditary, only temporary.
Soft-skinned, she smiles

and cleanses the house with sage.
My airways are scorching,
and my nose starts to drip red wine
but allergies are commonplace.
I must have gotten bad genes.

She lines the doorways
with remnants of the Himalayas.
Stronger than sea salt, it’ll help
if you just stay in your room.
I ignore the urge to shower,

rinse the blood off my lips.
She prays with a hand hovering above
my blackened skin, she gives me
olive oil, it helps with migraines.
If it hurts, it’s working.

She tells me it’s time to fast—
Ash Wednesday’s moved to October.
My body pangs and tremors,
bruised as the bitten fruit in my hand.
I’ve never fasted well.

She tosses me a burlap shift
and my skin splits at it’s touch, her
explanation lacks this time. But,
I can have my clothes back soon—
After the priest is done here tomorrow.


Mathew 12:43-45