In the Valley of the Shadow of Death

I’ve been thinking about Psalm 22—

of lament and eclipse, 

of Saint Lucy, stain-glass-trapped,

of medieval superstition.

I’ve been thinking about joining the Church,

but I take birth control,

but I take issue with dogma, but

had I been born in Sodom,

had I been married young—younger—

had I survived childbirth at age twelve

and, pregnant again, been selling jewelry at the market

with one baby on my hip, a toddler playing with my gold anklet,

pulling on my skirt, crying because they want a date, 

we too would be destroyed by sulfur and fire.

I’ve been thinking about Psalm 22.

I’ve been thinking about ancient poetry, Sappho’s fragments,

and the definition of love.

I’ve been thinking about Psalm 23.

I’ve been thinking about Psalm 23, but

I feel fearful, and anxiety and heartbreak. 

I’ve been reading about babies starving

while I paint my nails pink,

while I highlight my hair, 

while I take my baby girl to a cafe in matching outfits,

while I post my pistachio latte, and

I think, surely, I am going to hell.

Bleak. I do not feel like a lamb, lost or otherwise; 

and I fear my poetry, my prayers, won’t reach you.

Emily Bulicz-Arnelien