Mortal Sin...
concrete pews held us
muffled coughs, 5 & 10 cent store perfumes
waft thru the chill air.
tiled floors echo each tap of our shoe
drab wool coats reeking of bacon
fried on a white porcelain stove.

plaited hair and crooked bangs stare back at me
from my black patent leather purse.
as "en dominae patrae" bores into my head
i flick my fingers in my black mirror.
at a certain angle they are transformed -
spindly spider's legs with knuckles protruding.

i feel the terror.
i do not know God or sin or
sister florence marie,
only freakdom holds me.

my mother gently molds my deformed hand into hers.
Her vegetable-peeled hand
grown rough with oil soap, pots & pans, clothespins in March,
encases my own.

but i only feel the Terror.
one moment's respite from a consistent hell.
she must have been feeling heaven.

Rebecca Wilson

evening commuter
~~~~~

at the crossing, alone.
may's scents surround me.
cars pass over the bumpy tracks
and from the darkness
a white glow washes the platform.
the red lights,
hanging from the crossing gates
flash a warning.
shifting my purse from one hand to the other..
i step forward.

the night is stark against the red beacons
and as the sleek machine glides to a stop,
i count the single car.
tightly gripping my suitcase,
i take the first seat as the train slides
back into motion.

a steel silouhette flashing through the night...
occasional specks of light from the guide wires
break the black.
and we roll
into
the
darkness.

from August, 2001

Rebecca Wilson