Lent

In this season where sugar turns ash,
                                    Mama and I rise before school
            to buy fasnachts, buttery lumps
                                                of potato flour, from the best bakery in town.

I wear chapstick to trap sugar on my lips,
                                    to hide between my teeth this metaphor
            for everything I’ll lose in Lent,
                                                this promise: what I love can leave me.

I know no matter how many prayers I hurl
                                    into heaven, I can’t take back the kiss seared
            on Jesus’ brow, the bread of his bones.
                                                I can’t save Mama from mourning,

and so, as always, her love will wither like a bulb
                                    buried too close to winter, vanish as surely as hallelujahs
            from our mouths. No praise now, because Lent
                                                is the wrong season for joy.

I know better than to test her, but I do it
                                    anyway, holler hallelujah when the sky spits snow,
            wide flakes that’ll turn to rain that night.
                                                She grinds her teeth and doesn’t speak to me

until dinner: Jesus, she prays, make us sorry
                                    for our sins, offer us the grace to repent. 
            We sing hymns until long after bedtime—
                                                let all mortal flesh keep silent,

ponder nothing earthly-minded—
                                    and I’m almost sorry.
            But the next day, soot-cross darkening my forehead,                                               
                                                I bless everything on the playground:

worms scooped from the sidewalk return alive
                                    to the soaked earth, hallelujah,
            only two girls murmur freak and point at me,
                                                hallelujah, when a ball whistles from a boy’s hand

it misses me, hallelujah,
                                    my teacher lets me stay inside for the rest of recess
            and I fill the empty chalkboard, the tail
                                                of each a like the tongue of a lily:

hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah.
                                    These blessings, not for me, not for them,
            but for Mama: as if blessing something
                                                is the same as fixing it.

As if enough forbidden praise
                                    could drag Jesus back before he leaves us,
            leaves her alone and wanting what I can never
                                                give her, some other love than mine.

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