Maria is under the sink again.
The thick-glassed Virgin, smashed
against the tile, winks up
from the floor, part of the conspiracy,
in on the joke.
She heard the voices, locked the door.
When the landlord asks,
is she on drugs? you say,
if only and just the opposite,
then bless the key’s easy turning.
You cradle her wrist in your lap,
murmur while she talks
of the LOVE LOVE LOVE
in her head, how she tried
to take herself there.
The freeway passes, another
ocean, traffic’s swell and recede.
You press band-aids
to her forearm, say yes
when the EMT asks,
one medic to another,
if you placed the bandage.
But you’re no healer. You
watch as they lead her
to the waiting van. Billboards
cast their shallow light
across the parking lot.
She will spend a night
in the hospital, will drop out
of school, move north
to parents, marriage, children.
You will never see her again.
Michal Lemberger, finalist for the Bellevue Literary Review’s Marica and Jan Vilcek Prize for Poetry, is a writer, editor, and lecturer. Her poems are forthcoming and have appeared in The Rattling Wall, Ink Sweat & Tears, poeticdiversity, NY______, and elsewhere. Prose has appeared in Slate, Salon, Narratively, and many other publications. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and two daughters.