We lived for the shiver on our lips,
shards of lemon ice sharp as the sword
that severed St. Agnes’s head. Sacred
myths conjured up by the nuns ripened in
our mouths, whispered words that turned
sacrifice into surrender. Though years
would pass before boys became our song
of songs, we held their secret hurts inside us,
passed them down to the younger girls
like folded notes dropped into a palm.
Each one a tenderness from an unforgotten
taunt, stones stacked on our tongues. No one’s
heartache special enough to break the silence,
the only way we knew to carry the terrible weight.
Margaret Malochleb is a poet, writer and editor based in Chicago. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cream City Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, Rattle, Rust & Moth, The Shore and Tupelo Quarterly, among other journals.