All my angels visit me in August,

this never changes.

All of my mothers gather around 

as our sun sets on another year,

they pray over my sticky skin

full of concern 

as all mothers are.

They always start by thanking Mary for my body, 

they are so proud that I inherited their chest and hands.

Always with the chest and hands.

I guess I understand.

We all find something ironically holy about bodies

and I feel that my soul is weaved 

into every pore of mine.

So I join them

and we thank the stars for my 

beating body of soul.

They pray next

just for my legs.

That I will stop opening them

for strangers

and adulterers. 

They say the wetness and hardness and

biting and lying won’t fill anything.

They say to stop this abusive facade 

because it’s going to hurt either way.

They say it’s going to hurt either way.

I don’t know about all that. 

But mostly 

they pray for that crack

in my heart

that never fully healed.

See a long time ago

all my mothers

decided to send me my

ocean of love

when I was still a girl.

I’ve never understood

and they’ve never explained.

They must’ve thought I was wiser than I was.

They believed I was ready

and I let them down.

It didn’t work out how anyone thought.

It’s one of those mistakes 

that never really leaves a family.

So they all pray it heals,

every year,

and I close my eyes 

because I can’t see them 

be scared.