Letisia Cruz       St. Petersburg       (Maureen McDole)
Nothing of Beauty

The summer I was 11
I learned from Yanina and Yvette--
girls much older than I—that the religion 
of women who wear lipstick is beauty.
Beauty. I wore no lipstick then,
had no religion. But I could disappear
into any room. Blend into the wallpaper.
At times I wondered--
do I even exist?

One night under a summer diluvio,
I stood outside our green 
apartment building 
watching the neighbors run 
from the bodega to the laundromat, 
to the corner bar. The sun sank lower 
casting orange shadows on the front steps, 
and I faded. Not a single soul lay witness.

The religion I learned as a child 
was not beauty, but survival. 
I did not know it by name 
then. But I knew the sounds--
the timbre and cadence of gunshots.
Hurricanes rushing for shore. Fists 
breaking over my mother’s face. 
Now the stars were all 
dim. A Friday night 
and I sat in the back seat of Wilma’s Buick 
parked a block from her boyfriend’s house
with the windows rolled up,
the engine turned off.

Wilma and my mother eyed the front door 
like little hawks waiting 
for someone to swoop in with dinner. 
Wilma sank lower behind the wheel, 
eyes full of flames. 
I’d seen the same look 
in my mother’s. The man strolled 
out the front door and we followed. 
Love makes us hungry, 
my mother said.

My stomach grumbled.
Hunger, too, was religion. But one 
I already knew would fail me. 
How hunger, like beauty, 
leaves you vulnerable. 
Makes you forget where you are--
in a car. In a field.
Under water. 
Locked up in the basement 
of your own house.
Not survival. My religion 
was the worship of place.

This—here and now. This. 
Open your eyes. By god girl, 
don’t you ever forget it.

Religion is a barred window.
The flame of a match. A sky void of stars. 
The smell of burnt rice. Fog. 
Religion is your mother’s long hair.
Burning. Your father’s smile. 
The way he looked at her.
Then darkness. Nothing but night.
The place you came to as a child.
Your abandoned reservoir. 
Your escape. Religion 
is setting your crosses on fire. 
Holding nothing of beauty. 
No hunger. 

How the night sky is wide open.

Originally published in Migrations & Other Exiles,  Lost Horse Press (2023)