When my mother awakened me as a child,
her face was the entire room. Later, it was the bishop’s torso
that was the whole nave.
Confronting me was a blue density, the body
from the ribs up. In my memory I am unable to recover the face
or the words. I know there was a hand on my head.
I know I wished to be told that I would never die,
would love somebody else, could become good.
I wanted to lay my secret down—No matter
where I stand, I am doing harm—
but there was no room in the bishop’s robes.
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.