OBIT [The Priest]

The Priest—died on August 3, 2015. As

he  died, he  cursed.   When  the  priest

first    started    coming,    he    left    a

watermark  on  the  door.     As  time

passed, my mother’s door was riddled

with bullets from his fist.    He started

sending  me  prayers  with  his  eyes.  I

didn’t want his prayers.  I had too many

selves  for  God  to save.   None  of  my

selves knew how to say sorry.  None of

my selves knew each other.  I wonder if

my  mother  took  God  in  towards  the

end?  The way she had once cared for

her  fifty  bonsai  plants  each  morning,

snipping      gently,      adjusting      tiny

sprinklers,  beckoning  them  with  her

breath.    The bonsai barely responded,

had never asked to be limited.  She said

the priest was weird,  would look at her

in a creepy way.  As if he knew she was

not  a  believer,  but  a  refugee.   When

she    arrived    in    this    country,    they

painted   over   her   skin.    Her   fungal

toes only looked like roots.