Anointed

 

And He has always been

watching me..

  

I breathe across my wrists

leaving moisture behind, salt

in the wake of my tongue. If I nip

there will be the burnt tang of copper

swirled along my lips like the wounds

I’ve yet to heal.

 

As a child I would cup water

in my two small palms,

almost heart shaped.

Invariably some trickled through,

the gaps and creases between my fingers

let water through, out and in.

Not fast enough,

only memory would be left

to wet my lips.

 

When I was twelve

my mother didn’t understand why

I would not sit on Father’s lap

for Confession.

She did not want to hear about

his hands touching my budding breasts

as he gave absolution.

 

We were taught to clasp our hands and

poke out our tongues respectfully

that the priest might put the wafer there.

How could I think of those hands

in the same way again, touching Him,

touching me.

 

I prayed the Hail Marys

of my penance and

pictured those hands holding the Host

aloft for all to see.

 

When I am Confirmed

the Bishop slaps my cheek,

a gesture of faith.

I want to tell him that is

the only part of me left untouched

and he has taken it.