the dress

every sunday morning we had
a meeting with god but he
never showed, even after we piled
irritably into the car in uncomfortable clothes

and i bored at the gospel
sunk in the pew until
i was on the floor or made maps
of the veins on the back of my mother's hand

trying to push the blood
back up to her heart
closely watching for any
sign of break or change

one sunday morning after
bathing me, she forgot to drain
the tub, and while the family
trudged, fully dressed i slid back inside

enveloped in warm water i thought
this is my church, god finally
made it and this is
holy water i'm sinking in

my mother's anger
could have blown my hair
back but was instead
muted by the wonder

of becoming a gravity
free flower, of my skirts
giving in to drench after
making air and water kiss

bubbles birthed from each
layer of lace, my hem,
the eyelets of my white sock
and warp of my shiny shoes

working miracles like this
not only would god not be mad
that i didn't show at the building we were
both forced into- i should be canonized

i willed the blood back into her
heart, and at the 10:30 service
in dry clothes and wet pigtails
i pushed until she pulled away