home

Bless us, O Lord

I return home smaller each year than the last. My grandmother tells me how i've shrunk when she wraps her arms around my ribs and squeezes. My eyes have sunken into their sockets and I am reminded with each scrutinizing gaze from my relatives. They shove money into my pockets and pray for my nourishment come Christmas.  

and these thy gifts

I pick at my plate and pivot my gaze every few hours, searching for a dead man. I expect him to walk down the stairs, taller than the years prior. His lanky arms cloaked in cashmere, materials of maturity juxtaposed against his forever baby face. He sits frozen behind memorial photos and I wish I could punch through the glass to pull him back into my reality. I am reminded not to talk about such things. There is safety in my silence. As if that could suffocate my grief.

which we are about to receive from thy bounty

My brunette hair bobs against my slender neck. No one noticed how I cut my hair, nor the masculine style I arrive in. I deny speculation of any suitors, though the blonde hair of a woman stains my eyelids. I wish to be uncomplicated and palatable for the thanksgiving feast in which my identity is served and picked apart.    

through Christ, our Lord

My youngest sister fingers through her Bible. A cross dangles down my décolletage, and I flip it between my fingers to imitate faith. I feel their disappointment in me. A distance growing beyond ligation, and I linger in this pain. I am a stranger in the home I was once welcomed. Paranoid of relatives who refract my demented reflection back onto me. We join in prayer that I recite with empty rhythm. Behind my words, I longingly beg that I can somehow be embraced again.    

Amen