Mary

              Rain falls on the statuette of Mary.
              on the freshly wet pavement i lay my body down. i can feel the cement, rough and raw.
              to the side of my head i can hear the hissing of cars on the slick street.
              they say that drivers are most vulnerable at the beginning of a rainfall. that the water and dirt and oil on the street creates a thing slippery film between the tires and the road.
              i can feel it, this volatile combination. This rain is dangerous. it’s warm, but urgent; slow, but intent; and like me, it’s waiting.
              across the street, rain drips off the alabaster statue of Mary. will there be weeping in heaven for me?
              my mother comes to the door, sees me lying in the street, reaches out a hand to me. “Come inside,” she chides.
              but i can feel it. i can touch it, this cement and this grass, creating a thin slippery film that holds the earth in, and me on top. the water and oil creating a thin slippery skin that holds my insides in. i can feel it.
              i can feel the rain, and smell the rain, and hear the rain; the flick of windshield wipers, the tears of the statuette, my mother’s voice, so close and so urgent. headlights slashed by raindrops.
              I take Mother Mary’s hand and go inside.

-by Violet Nova (copyright ©)