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