Sacrament
Meghan Cadwallader
If there is a statue of a saint
whose toes are worn smooth from old women
kissing, then there is nothing
to complain about. They return to their homes,
the taste of sacred on their lips and
furtive hope in their eyes, like when their husbands
used to press a hand into the smalls of their backs,
fingers lingering at the fabric around their tiny waists.
After the lunch dishes are cleared
and the men return to work, the women doze
and dream of scraping the earth with a shard of mirror,
with their bare nails, with the thin edge
of their own resolve, surprised when a spring
bursts forth. As the water seeps into
the hems of their skirts they blink themselves awake,
scared by thoughts of walking within
folds of blue and white, wondering
if that is not what they do now, just different
clothing, no mud caking their knees.
In the evening, their swollen feet argue with
release from shoes, hose are peeled off
like the ivy stripped from the
walls of the church; another year
the brick won’t crumble
into green shadows. The women study
their own toes, wishing for feet
kissed smooth by someone
who turned toward them a face
and a mouth full of adoration.
They sleep haunted by all they did not say
in the dark wooden box that made them forget
their words and consider their coffin, not wanting
to be buried in the sudden collapse of their sins.
And when they wake they put on their costumes again--
no blue, no white, no reverent folds—clothes heavy
with duty and habit, a skirt that forces
small steps, a somber pace. They feel guilty for wishing
they did not have to return
to the feet of the saint who reminds them
of a time when their own hands
looked as soft and as delicate as the marble palms
upturned to the groaning ceiling.
If there is a statue of a saint
whose toes are worn smooth from old women
kissing, then there is nothing
to complain about. They return to their homes,
the taste of sacred on their lips and
furtive hope in their eyes, like when their husbands
used to press a hand into the smalls of their backs,
fingers lingering at the fabric around their tiny waists.
After the lunch dishes are cleared
and the men return to work, the women doze
and dream of scraping the earth with a shard of mirror,
with their bare nails, with the thin edge
of their own resolve, surprised when a spring
bursts forth. As the water seeps into
the hems of their skirts they blink themselves awake,
scared by thoughts of walking within
folds of blue and white, wondering
if that is not what they do now, just different
clothing, no mud caking their knees.
In the evening, their swollen feet argue with
release from shoes, hose are peeled off
like the ivy stripped from the
walls of the church; another year
the brick won’t crumble
into green shadows. The women study
their own toes, wishing for feet
kissed smooth by someone
who turned toward them a face
and a mouth full of adoration.
They sleep haunted by all they did not say
in the dark wooden box that made them forget
their words and consider their coffin, not wanting
to be buried in the sudden collapse of their sins.
And when they wake they put on their costumes again--
no blue, no white, no reverent folds—clothes heavy
with duty and habit, a skirt that forces
small steps, a somber pace. They feel guilty for wishing
they did not have to return
to the feet of the saint who reminds them
of a time when their own hands
looked as soft and as delicate as the marble palms
upturned to the groaning ceiling.