Prayer of Petition
After Kate Patridge’s “Petition for Reintroduction”
I don’t want to get mail from
the Jesus people anymore,
but they have my address
and miraculously spelled
my first name correctly.
How did they find me?
It’s been 22 years since
I’ve dipped my hand into
a holy water font, crossed
myself, and sat in a pew. I know
who gave me away—my mother,
who attends Mass daily,
who lights candles for my soul,
who believes the only church
is the Catholic church——all
others are cults. Each mailer
with its crucifixes, rosaries,
and Holy Virgin Marys is
a reminder that she still exists——
still expects monthly visits.
One Mother’s Day dinner
at Village Inn, she brought
corsages—white carnations
for herself since her mother
had passed away, and pink
ones for me since she was
seated across the booth——
still to criticize
and side-eye. Still there to
shackle my wrist with flowers.
That was before I gave birth
to a daughter. Leven’s now 17.
For Mother’s Day this year,
Leven picks up her grandmother,
drives her to dinner at our house,
and takes her home. She returns
with $20——gas money——
and a white beaded rosary.
She thinks it’s jewelry and wears
it like a gaudy necklace.
Leven’s never learned
the Lord’s Prayer, the Hail Mary,
Glory Be, or the Apostles’ Creed.
It’s no mystery why my mother
gave her this—it’s no mystery
why my daughter accepted it.
After a couple weeks, Leven
hangs it off her rearview mirror
along with a pair of handcuffs——
both glaring in the sun.
The Yearly Visit
In the pasture, I come to a halt
at the stone bearing your name.
The uneven land blooms with fists,
surrounded by hills, cows, and flaming
red trees. There, in your cement vault,
protected from boredom, a nightmarish
pandemic, and coming war, you rest.
I envy that, for our children, almost adults,
carry the burdens we’ve never claimed.
I witness the suffering, tally the lists
of complaints, and I worry as if
worry was the only balm to ease blame.
Left to weather the brutal assault
of aging alone, I tread into the mist
and mud each autumn with the shame
of a failed mother who wishes
it was she buried in the calm. I lament
your early escape and wait for a return visit.
Your ghost, wafting sardines and Swedish Fish,
appeared once for a moment in the doorframe
of our old tan house. I screamed and spat.
You must have thought me childish.
My mouth’s filled with sugar, salt, and fault.
Cat Dixon is the author of What Happens in Nebraska (Stephen F. Austin University Press, 2022) along with six other poetry chapbooks and collections. She is a poetry editor with The Good Life Review. Recent poems published in Thimble Lit Mag, Amethyst Review, and Moon City Review. She works full-time as support staff at a funeral home and teaches creative writing part-time at the University of Nebraska, Omaha. Her favorite revenge story is Medea by Euripides.
