Because I'm a budding flower, Monsignor tells me. Because I'm ripe with pollen, a flower near bloom, I entice bees. He’s the bee, you see.
Because the priest cautions against telling. Because no one believes young girls. Keep your sins to yourself. Pray 15 Our Fathers, 10 Hail Marys.
Because Mother asks what sins earn such a weighty penance. He overpenanced you.
Because telling the truth feels dirty, I lie. The sin of idolatry, I tell her. My soul blackens. Using a Ouija board at the slumber party.
Because Mother warned me not to wear the tank top to school.
Because Daddy told me I should never show the goods unless they’re for sale.
Because I invited desire.
Because my aunt once confessed about a man slipping his hand over her breast while swimming in a pool when she was twelve, I hold back from telling Mother. Because my aunt’s voice dropped to a whisper, I inhaled her shame. I know the weight you’ll carry. I carry it too.
Because Her breasts nourished Baby Jesus, I save the Hail Marys for last. The cracked leather kneeler cuts my knees like a hair shirt. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
But there, shadowed by the Holy Virgin statue, a woman nurses; the baby’s soft suckles echo in the hushed church and a sudden certainty anoints me, stings my soul—my body is my own.
Because confession wronged me, I pause my penance with a vow to protect myself from bees.
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