I Wailed by Genesis Silva

I wailed,
but not like a babe—hungry for a latch

more like,
a parishioner, devoted, and begging for the return of christ

I heaved and tore my hair
tied it in knots
one for each passing eve when the moon and her stars peer down with humiliating pity

I pull a card
two dames, hands clasped, standing under an arch of flowers— it is the 5th position

my head swings back and I look towards Celeste for a confirmation
but there are nails driven through the mahogany

I suppose this is that, the crucifixion, of which they once cried foul