Confession
Leila Chatti
Oh, I wish I had died before this and was in oblivion, forgotten. - Mary giving birth, The Holy Qur'an
Truth be told, I like Mary a little better when I imagine her like this, crouched and cursing, a boy-God pushing on her cervix (I like remembering she had a cervix, her body ordinary and so like mine), girl-sweat lacing rivulets like veins in the sand, her small hands on her knees not doves but hands, gripping, a palm pressed to her spine, fronds whispering like voyeurs overhead— (oh Mary, like a God, I too take pleasure in knowing you were not all holy, that ache could undo you like a knot)—and, suffering, I admire this girl who cared for a moment not about God or His plans but her own distinct life, this fiercer Mary who'd disappear if it saved her, who'd howl to Hell with salvation if it meant this pain, the blessed adolescent who squatted indignant in a desert, bearing His child like a secret she never wanted to hear.