Felix Culpa

As she thumbs the
petal of the white
orchid in her
hand,

she caresses the
bulging abdomen she
shares with those
who will listen.

The orgy of touch is too
much and she
weeps. This was
meant to be the

merger of two hearts.
Instead, it is the
remanence of
sexual indulgence.

With swollen
feet and sweaty
palms she steps out
into the bay breeze

and lets God‘s
rays shine down upon
her, stretching her
palms to the sky.

“He makes me
suffer so I can
be closer to Him”
 she tells herself,

half wishing
she believed it. Why
can‘t this be her own
immaculate conception?

But the swelling life in
her belongs to her night of
drunken ecstasy behind boxes of
plantains with a 24 year old box
boy named Randy.


As she sits at the
café, her sixteen year
old eyes cry and she
wonders

just how many other
Virgin Marissas has he
saved? She smiles for
just a moment.

These intertwined
lives have more
purpose than the
shell once did.