Hymn 8: Chased Grace

I. A Winter Afternoon's Cathedral Tune

Did I—do I—love “like a boy?” my question as a child.

Now, glaring, resembling a skew of light’s slant thru stained

glass windowsill,

are semblances. “Sexuality aside;” “gender is a construct,” “from

which we…hide?”

I lie here, reflecting on taking my evening sleeping pill.

Frames tailored to confine an established, defined “girl,” “guy,”

a world of “what would be” if sexual fluidity was truly free;

not society’s “he” “she.” They, we. Whichever identity deemed “I.”

We love whom we love. Is that not enough? Limited, why? Ask me?

That’s fucked.

I grew up ushered by nuns, piloted by religiosity.

The clergy, shepherded by priests, commanded that chastity

was my ticket at the gate.

In other cases, brother’s feats. Pious, why us? What about the

lads, in catechism, Dad?—Sorry,

“Father”—colloquialisms: not kosher. [Abate].

How I envied boys sporting around, while I sported: dress-bound,

expected to play “who’s married?”

At recess, I was tested: “climb the beam.” [I did]. When it was

him turned, he inverted.

“Father, Father!” His incess-ant jests; His ground he kissed; as

I set out, un-possessed.

“I can do that too,” I blurted.

“You can’t; you’re a Miss.” [I won’t miss…] “Not wearing pants,

princess.”

Watch this.

Unlatched belt, button, unsecured jumper.

More movement I seeded to feel free ‘nd “do like a boy,” be

whom I needed. “How unlike ‘her.’”

Flipped from upright; from going straight; down on the bar,

Joy to the World, I breathed in, until I saw stars.

I spun over. Everyone could see

as I breathed older, yelling, “this was all me!” In glory.

Gripped legs around the bar, positioned them so

until I felt, Oh,

good.

—The memory.

Let go of control of my limbs: arms taken by wind, as body

hung, gently rung.

Swayed just a bit, hearing hymns sung

In the distance, until, there—that was it, the spot I felt

strong

Enough to do it on my own. My sweet siren song

Was no longer honeyed or—

from behind my knees, that was the key: worked up my legs.

Pleased with myself, it was all haze.

That special spot, which secured me. That boy was, Oh!

—wrong!

II. Spring’s Swell

He did all that he could until my grace felt thwarted

And quickly, I aborted. On palms, I fell. Bleeding, hell.

Bar had done what I needed to feel freed, ‘nd now an apology,

I pleaded.

From He, himself. I was then blinded

By a mass of peers with presumed cheers. That soon ended.

Plucked from the bar like a petal lost-splendid,

Sent to the altar where I was chastised for “girls falter,” cleverly

disguised as redemption,

Grace, resisting temptation.

That was my worth, how I would be judged first:

Whether I chose to give birth

To sin,

Wait, wait! Even if it is for Him?

“Quiet, child. Have you not learned? Catholic girl’s undies

Burned in that head of yours, on display for thee, mostly He.”

Baptized in shame, but I was free; in control of my body, in

charge of the game.

Once what no one could see,

now moved “like a boy” and loved “like a boy.”

Wait, it might be nicest to think, Faith, that this was conscious. That eight-year-old me was taking charge of her body’s fate

Beyond this, save for—I confess,

This was not the case. No comprehension of “chaste.”

He had seen nothing wrong with what was done. All along,

eight-year-old me

Assumed we were equal as we chased, and that we were just

playing,

(That is when I was told to start praying).

Eight-year-old me realized we had no control of her body.

Not unless she was a He.

Persephone, hear me.

I had not seen a difference between

Loving “like a girl” and loving “like a guy.”

In my world, loving and liking were dubbed by “I’s.”

Then my earth flipped; creation of a shift,

Plunged, as I had on the bar. Being punished

For what He made me do. Because now, boys can see

undies!

Who is at fault?

Me. For being too “exciting,” “enticing,” “inciting.”

No one will save me if I fall,

Because even though it is not really my body it becomes

My body the moment someone else may be at fault,

And I become the one who had “too much fun,”

“Asked for it,” trying to love

“like a boy.” And how this “would not be the case”

had I remained chased...

This changed me irreparably; never able to love my body fully

or feel good being “girly”

Again, because He chased me until powerfully scorned me.

How I could never be as strong as He, who climbed the bar

gracefully, who would jar:

“you will never conquer me.” Men, who said: since I was just a

“she,” whose impotence to

“cavort like a guy,” was why…

III. The Fall

I do not think I understood the divide

Between the sexes, genders, and allied, when I was a chil’

Because to me it was just human, not divine, and without

intervention.

Yet I did know I desired to love “like a boy.”

Despite being versed in what was holy, I love/like girls, not boys

only.

Chalked it up to admiration first, as we would go station-to

station praising her Divinity

Which was merely praise of virginity; and I could not believe in

this holy perception, this conception

Of why Mary, devoted to Joseph, had to bear Jesus so that he

could be the savior,

why not her?—who would save her?

I would romp around with the boys, never fully accepted

Because of the way I was dressed, ‘nd

Never spoke to the girls because they were too pretty: hair and

dress,

immaculate, while I was just homely—

and so suggested the pastorate.

Though I admired everyone, I made my fun in my head. Questions of life, love, and about the dead; why Mom and Dad through bonds were wed, not love. Because still, in twentieth centuries, it is easier to love as a lark and a dove than to

embrace Grace beyond faith.

In secondary, university, Ph.D., and so on, I dated men, Mom.

Not because I could not love/like a guy, or love like a girl, or

felt a need to pacify schoolgirl, but because love chose me.

Unfortunately, we learn I did not choose love in return.

Instead, men said I was too much “like a guy” in bed.

And girls? They said I had “too many guys” in bed.

You see, now I am reflecting: yes, what did become of me?

As I grew into my identity, and suddenly I was my sexuality,

And then it was my problem when I love ‘em like a “girl,”

Or like a “guy,” or like whomever I damned well pleased.

Fuck it, loving like me!

So boys chased me, love-liking me “like girls” doting, for being fearless, for being mysterious, and whatever else misogynist—that was supposed to come out as equalist—

but only appeared with condescension, as He focused on his

ascension into my veiled world.

And girls? Indifferent because—woe, Kismet—I was indifference.

Shes who drank wine with me, abandoned time with me,

More focused on how I was un-devoted to Hes; angry as Hes Chased me, and unavailingly, loved or liked them “like me,”

apparently.

One day I felt exalted—I may have prompted them, to fuck

themselves straight to the heavens.

Please realize this: loving “like girls” and loving “like boys” isn’t

it at all;

I love-like girls, I love-like boys, but my balance of masculine,

of feminine,

That is just it: feminist.

Incredulous?

Isn’t it the soul, we shall love wholly?

Holy! Holy! Holy!

Reverence—loves true eminence—

makes me love you all,

And, far from grace, willing to fall.