God buried me before I was ever born
written by: Nathalia Garcia
I
My mother tells me I was made in God’s image. I ask her, “do I look like a man or was God a woman?” Her answering swing makes me see cherubs behind my eyelids.
I lay alone now, thinking about Jesus’s linen covered body. How can my mother say I was made in His image yet garland me in bruises like supernovas, these still-there ghosts of anger.
II
Sitting in the pews, the pastor preaches that some loves are sinful. Eyes seem to look right at me. I don’t dare look at the girl across the church. My lips are burning at her memory. Two Virgin Marys entwining, our fingers tasting of wine and olives afterwards.
III
When Jesus’s body was placed in the tomb, two Marys sat opposite the burial site.
In the chapel, we sit on either side of His cross, hands clasped.
IV
I was peppered with white streaks like shining comets, jumping out against my sepia skin. My scars multiply out but my mother will not stop. I am just an extension of her.
V
I want to dig God up and ask him, “how could You birth me to this pain?”
VI
I try instead to be a continuation of my lover. In her arms, our hearts are filled with coins. Her glittering nail-polish fingers are trailing stars against the hurts on my hips. Her pebbled nipple against my belly-button, I can’t help thinking we are tombs, simply pits to dig at, never resurrecting.
VII
My mother forces my head down, we pray for salvation. Pomegranate seeds leak from our eyes, staining the white cloth of the altar. The crucifix looms. Jesus is stuck on His cross. I am stuck in my wants.
I search His eyes for forgiveness.
VIII
I never found His gaze.
- God Buried Me Before I Was Ever Born - February 21, 2024
