Saint Sunday

In certain folktales, she appears with Mary,

pierced through with the scissors and needles

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of girls who worked, forbidden, on Sundays.

She is marred with knives, and scarred

with scythes wielded disobediently.

I imagine Christ’s gentle hands, healing

his battered Saint, pulling nails from her flesh,

gauzing over the wounded, bleeding breast.

As when I lay on a gurney before surgery,

my eyes fixed on the nurse’s crucifix.

As long as I could watch Christ’s hanging body,

I was calm; and in that brief and conditional

courage, God came and erased fear’s bruises

from my neck and stayed with me, who wept.

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