by Sarah Lilius
Your feet don’t want to touch mere ground.
The Earth is supposed to belong to us all
but I don’t buy that, what a mistake to share
something so large, so phenomenal.
I once knew how to spell hallelujah
now there’s hate on my sleeve.
I’m the feminist at the other side of the table
pounding her fist and shaving her head.
I’m killing for my own life
and you say I sin, can smell it on me
like a shy lapdog.
What language do you hear my lament in?
Why do I write poems about Jesus
and I’m the carpenter having my way
with wooden objects?
I’ll never use the P word in this dialogue.
Were you not a boy on his knees?
Didn’t you kiss the mirror and say Hail
Maria or Lucia, maybe Catalina?
I want the names tattooed on your body
with ink from the sea.
Your journey isn’t typical.
You become mythic, loved, hated.
Words you speak from your balcony,
army in your mouth released to a microphone.
Dear Jorge, what have you become in white,
waving, always waving.
Sarah Lilius is the author of five chapbooks including GIRL (dancing girl press, 2017) and Traffic Girl (Ghost City Press, 2020). Some of her publication credits include the Denver Quarterly, Court Green, Tinderbox, Fourteen Hills, Boulevard and forthcoming in the Massachusetts Review and New South. She lives in Arlington, VA with her husband and two sons. Her website is sarahlilius.com.