Pious

Airea D. Matthews

 

In dreams, Mary comes draped beneath a veil, Dead

Sea breaking at her feet, arms outstretched in that maternal

welcoming. She wades waist-deep, covers her scars, not

wanting to scare the children. Every mother’s duty:

Keep the unholy origins hidden, those hauntings quiet.

Like her, I cloak my immaculates in robes, send them off

to learn. Soon they'll wonder, though, about the white

detritus on my tongue when they come home, as I nod off

mid-endearment, weighing hope against their smiles, our

heavy goodnights before the tiny Mary in my well shakes

her bottle full of pills, beckoning:

Take, eat,

in remembrance—

     And who am I not to answer my own heritable call?