Rachel Mallalieu
Good Friday, 2020
At night, I no longer kiss my
children, for fear the errant
wind of my bedtime prayer
carries dissolution.
I am dust.
My particulates hang
deadly in the room.
I didn’t give up anything for Lent,
and then I gave up everything.
No ashes on my forehead, but rather
on my tongue—
my mouth parched
behind the mask.
If this Friday is still good,
the seal will hold.
I am faceless.
I stop smiling at patients,
but I’m close enough to kiss them
when I place the blade
in their mouths, and search for
the pale glisten of cords
when I pass
the breathing tube.
Last week, there was still
time so I let him call his son.
He wept and said I love you
then swore it wouldn’t be long
before they spoke again.
I never make promises I can’t keep.
It’s simpler to say
he will die.
And if miraculously he does not,
no one ever begrudges
a resurrection.