Imagine me at nine
in Catholic school
with hair still short
but breasts grown big
bigger than any other girl
my age. Breasts that strained
the buttons on my blouse;
breasts that drew the eyes
of older boys; breasts I
didn't know what to do with
yet. I wanted to be a nun
at nine. I dreamed of cold
stone floors, raw knees
and a voice hoarse with shouting
prayers.
Imagine me thirteen, about to be
confirmed, and still not sure
what to do with those breasts,
that god. Christ was so very
beautiful on the cross –
his muscled legs and arms,
his body pulled taut.
I wanted something –
to burn for him...
to die with him, muscles straining
bodies taut, arms and legs entwined.
All the girls had breasts now,
but mine were still the biggest,
and I wanted to offer them up
on his altar.
Imagine me eighteen – I had
left the church, long ago; I had
learned what to do with those
breasts. My hair was growing long,
and I was learning how to dance
on newly-muscled legs. At night,
I whispered to God.
Oh Christ!
If you were only like the gods
of my Hindu friends. If you,
like slim blue Krishna,
came down from heaven
to seduce women in fields,
I would unbutton my blouse for you;
I would unbraid my hair.
I know what Mary Magdalen desired.
To smooth the sadness from your eyes,
with the softness of her skin,
the fullness of her breasts.
To wash you from head to toe
and dry you with skin and hair –
and then get wet again.
To take the lord of creation
deep inside herself –
and hear him, finally,
laughing as he came.
