Be afraid of God, her mother always said. When she was sat 

in the soft enclosure of her room, braiding pigtails

with ruby-eyed ribbons, at her pinnacle of innocence.

Upside down, hooked and pearl-studded,

the cross above her bed nodded with benevolence:

yes, you must be afraid. 

On Sundays at mass, the beads of her eyes got caught

on the vitraux—

the enigma of pale misery in Virgin Mary’s eyes,

golden proof of her purity.

Before the holy glass she felt ashamed of her dirty knees,

her skirt splashed in the reeds.

She walked under God’s malignant gaze 

smothered like a bug, a speck of dust. In her he could see 

everything: the holes on the back

of her lace-trimmed sock, the beads of sweat 

on the parting of her hair, 

the hope in her little lamb’s heart. 

Ever since she learned the strain of reading, church signs

became her gospel. You—are—not—immortal—God’s—kingdom—

is—near—

pray.