Caitlin Hubert is the author of Whole, Unholy, a poetry collection that explores the intersections between faith, adolescence, family, and sexuality.
we meet in the church ladies’ room
you were my big luck, heels
pumping thick into my back, kneading
me out like dough.
you shed your clothes like snakeskin,
bend with the chill. our honeysuckled teeth
grind the lord’s flesh because we’re good girls,
chapped lips sip lemonade:
a subtler form of masochism.
you live by the commandments until
you flower in full.
daisies scream to damp soil
as they choke in a child’s fist.
pick dandelions, your mother said,
they’re easier to forget.
you remember this until you’re waking up
at three a.m. to put on makeup for nobody.
you’re miss red dress, grey sweats, missing
me on rainy nights. i’m picking at my scabs so you’ll
remember me come autumn. you’re the holy land:
home of skyscrapers embracing the night,
of scabbed knees and rubbed-raw
palms. sunday can’t come soon enough.
i’m running a shower for the first time in months.
touch, touch, touch
the breathy dialogue of lovers,
of the lonely.