THE WORK OF MY HANDS AND THE SKIN OF MY TEETH

Photo by Lennon Caranzo on Unsplash.

all my rosaries are broken right now. i read alice walker, i embrace the philosophy of “everyday use.” or at least, i tell myself this, to atone for or hide from the fact that i really don’t treat my possessions that well. season’s change, and i toss all my everyday objects into my purse: keys, mask, rosary, wallet, sanitizer. the rosary snakes down to the coins and dorito dust. when i pull it out, it will be a straight line. 

all my rosaries are broken right now. i am ashamed of my grandmother’s glass beads loose in a ziploc. the black plastic beads i got in ciudad juarez and most often wrap around my wrist as anchor and armor, they’ll be fine as they are for now. i bought the white ones with their little perfumed plastic case the first time i went back into the world to touch sacred objects. i remind myself that god was a baby once. here is a good enough place to start. 

all my rosaries are broken right now. i hold one loose end of my white wood beads in my right hand. the other slips out from my paralyzed left hand. take two. the end slips out from my paralyzed left hand. take three. the end slips out from my paralyzed left hand.

all my rosaries are broken right now. i used to have so much more faith in the skin of my teeth, when i passed wine through them trusting silver plating and sanctification. now to put the end between my teeth and hook the chain back on is to make a pact between me and mary. this object is ours alone. it still smells a littl like roses. i hope she’ll forgive me for my fragile surgery. i tell her i love her by the skin of my teeth.