Mary

By Lux Allen

I walked onto the stage
of the evangelical church
I was told I belonged to
hundreds of eyes watched me
my small,
feminine,
godly body
seven years old
half as old as Mary

the pastor grabbed me by the hand
as I stepped into the horse trough
and warm, still water surrounded me
I looked up at the ceiling
spotlights shone down
on my pale, freckled skin

In the name of
the father,
the son,
and the holy spirit,
amen.
and as my face was pushed underwater
I remembered how it felt to drown
a loss of air
a feeling of despair

it was as if
God himself had forced his hand
upon my face
I couldn’t breathe
I couldn’t see

but I was safe,
right?

so I accepted the feeling
I left the water
shaking,
wet,
cold,
reborn.

my parents welcomed me
as I cascaded down the steps
my wet hair dripping onto my
towel-covered shoulders
and waiting for me
was a gift
from my grandparents

I untied the ribbons,
tore open the paper,
to reveal a new bible

King James Version
cloaked in pink-dyed leather
a girl bible

now I could be
everything they want me to be
fulfilling my godly duty
to be dainty,
feminine,
a bible-wielding warrior,
a preacher,
a storyteller,
an obeyer,
a promise fulfiller.

would I end up like Mary?
barefoot,
pregnant,

fourteen in a barn
screaming,
crying,
sobbing,
fulfilling my Godly duty

is this what it meant to be a woman of God?

Lux Allen (they/them) is a poet, activist, and storyteller. Their work is fueled by their passion for representation of their identities.