traced blue ink pen
on creased palms
mapping out curves with each
stroke, blotching lines with the bend of
fingers before ink dried.
Until the pen was snatched
away, palm turned down
on an ankle-length black skirt because
although quiet and contained,
blue ink would stand out --
make marks on hands I had
to shake—as if that’s any way
to greet an eight-year-old.
Hymns were therapeutic,
I knew them all by heart
—from the banks of the river
Jordan to the hills of Calvary,
holy lands running blood
red with war, cradling ideology.
Felt board with cut-outs of
white washed apostles, disciples
dictated Sunday nine o’ clocks but
no one asked my thoughts
on sermons, they just knew
I knew all the stories but
didn’t bring my friends with me
so my star chart was never full.
Author Bio:
Savanna Halfaker is a second year graduate student at Southeast Missouri State University earning her Masters degree in Professional Writing, while holding a B.A. in English: Writing. She is an editorial and graduate assistant and has been pursuing writing since a young age. Many of her poems are centered around theology, images and the subversion of nature, and the questioning of femininity in our modern society. She is currently an unpublished author.