u/GoodMeBadMeNotMe

“In the Circle”

When I was nineteen, 
I stood in a circle 
dressed like a whisper. 
White from collar to ankle, 
barefoot, 
holding hands with a woman 
I had known my whole life 
and never quite met.

They said: 
This is the true order of prayer. 
But it felt more like 
learning a dance 
with all the mirrors removed.

Her hand in mine 
was the temperature of porcelain— 
not cold, 
just untouched. 
She stared ahead 
like revelation might finally look back. 
And I stared at the space 
between our fingers, 
trying to remember 
if we had ever held hands 
before this.

We turned toward the altar. 
Voices rose in quiet unison. 
I pressed my palm 
against my mother’s palm 
and felt the absence 
like it was printed into her skin.  

I never learned how to carry 
the weight of a man’s name— 
only that it was handed to me 
like a toolbelt: 
Here’s your hammer. 
Here’s your silence. 
Here’s your hunger you’re not allowed to name.

We stood shoulder to shoulder 
in that circle of believers, 
pretending our softness was reverence 
and not a threat.

I repeated the ancient words. 
I stood still in the choreography 
and called it faith. 
I watched my mother vanish 
beneath her veil 
and wondered 
if God would recognize her 
before I did.

I didn’t know what I believed. 
But I believed in the ache of it, 
in the gravity of hands 
touching gently, 
without needing a reason 
other than this is how we reach heaven.

Now 
I live outside that circle. 
I have unbuckled the belt. 
Loosened the name. 
Asked questions 
the ceremony refused to answer. 
There are layers I am still scraping off, 
dried wax from wood grain— 
what the patriarchy left behind 
when it burned through 
everything soft.

But sometimes, 
in the soft animal dark of early morning, 
I remember how the room held us— 
twelve bodies, or something like them, 
standing so still 
it almost felt like peace.

I still say the words sometimes, 
in the shower, 
or while folding laundry: 
O God, hear the words of my mouth.

And I do not know 
who I’m speaking to— 
only that I am still 
the same creature 
who once wept 
at the quiet of a hand resting on their shoulder 
and wanted it to mean 
something like love.

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