SALVATION

I was a cadaver, not a carcass

My salvation came to me on a Sunday, I was in the final stretch of seventeen. It waited for me on my mother’s street, engine running steadily. I climbed into the vehicle, apologies flooding out of my mouth before I could even think to say Hello or Good morning or How have you been? My salvation was driving, eyes fixed on the road, by the time I looked her way. It was overcast, her sunglasses shed a shadow down her cheeks; I caught a glimpse of her pupils dilating at the light as she told me the only thing she kept from her father was his jeans. Dull denim, rough at the seams. It would take me until the next October to notice him in the way her voice would swell, knuckles turning white around my wrist. Damnation twisted in my ribs, the insatiable clenched fists. My salvation knew how to repent; palms were raw, calloused and septic red. She would sing of the little white rabbits and knead bread. There was, of course, the arch of her foot and my Achilles heel. Water turned to wine. She held my throat in one hand and in the other a trumpet of steel. We were waiting for the four horsemen, like they could reach us in time. There was a distinct order of things, the sacrificial lamb’s tongue hung out of it’s jaw. The body had gone limp, damp wool littered with salt. She grabbed the shears and swore that we would run it through metal teeth, spin it to yarn or string. The fleece fell in one piece, she wore the skin that Spring.

My salvation was more than I bargained for, she was a rapture of sorts. I was roadkill in the rearview. There was a cocked gun in the backseat, all she had to do was lean back. She could do it without even turning to look. When the car pulled over she nudged the remains with her toe, en pointe or tendu. She swatted away the gnats, pushed up her sleeves and crouched down to me. My salvation knew that I was a cadaver, not a carcass. She washed my hair, brushed out the knots and braided two tight plaits along my scalp. Mumbled in half prayer: All my love, all my life. The stars were falling from the sky. Angels flew with their many faces. False Christs rose and wars intensified. We braced ourselves for natural disaster and watched the resurrected become glorified. My salvation kissed me open mouthed, wet and warm. I once had the courage to run my fingers down her spine as she was kneeling; the feathers had been plucked from her shoulder blades and their absence caught us both by surprise. But now there is only the lake of fire, she wades in like she has nothing to hide. She is an amalgamation of claws and clasped hands. Never mutilates without mercy. Shoots me straight between the eyes.