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?

 



—As if light were the remedy



 



for the pitch thrall of fate, I would



 



angle beams toward the desert,



 



stream across dark chasms of space,



 



reveal this enemy’s backbone,



 



uncoil that helix…