Wash Day

On warm Sundays we dress and undress

Ourselves for Service. We make a church out of our bathroom, Turn sinks into altars, Oil into anointment. My mother, A magician and a priestess, Scratches the skin from my head a bit too hard— As if she’s combing sacrilegious thoughts from my mind. But she doesn’t ask about them. She doesn’t say anything, But her fingers declare her love for me, Drenching my hair with water too holy for unskilled hands. She tangles and untangles, Weaves and unweaves, Does and undoes Her hands in the mess I’ve made of my hair. Gently parting the sea atop my head, She anoints me with holy oil. Pours a poem into my scalp. Lets it drip down my neck and baptize me. Cleanse me. My Holy Woman, Holy Mother, Braids my hair into prayers, Smiles at the union between Mother,                      Daughter, and               Holy Spirit. When we still found church in buildings and Not each other She would whisper sweet words to me in the seats of the pew. Sweet, venomous words. “To be celebrated here, you have to be a childbearing virgin,” She’d laugh. “To be celebrated you have to be pious.” My Unholy Woman. Unholy Mother. More Magdalene than Mary, More sinner than saint.​​

Artwork: The Creation of God, Harmonia Rosales, 2017