Our Lady, Carmen
Her mornings are a rough festival of intimacy. Fingers yank faucets, pry drain holes, slam windows to shield the rain that beats against her age-spotted cheeks. Carmen groans to life with a dusty exhale through radiator teeth. She lifts us into a mortal frame and cradles us in her swollen belly, wearing skin tags of puckered mold. When her frail bones collapse beneath her, she is damned. Her dripping wounds are left exposed and unanswered.
Carmen, who winks and leaves trails of her decomposing mystery: encryptions in the elevator, coded coincidence, apparitions on the roof. Bulging with the uneven curves of womanhood, gurgling in the humility of seniority. The lake winds kiss her unwanted body and she sighs through this glass rattled slow-dance. We weep and make love in her cavities. She groans as we groan inside of her.
I’m Hana, a Junior English major and a tutor at the Writing Center. I look forward to sharing and enjoying others’ work at our weekly Writer’s Guild meetings. I really appreciate how The Orange Couch encourages writers to connect within our community, particularly during this time of disconnect. I’m grateful to participate!