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Where Does Belief Lie: a Prose Poem

A prompt from Felixflautajrpoetry.

“Describe a place you visited often, what you heard there, who you wanted to become. Write in the second person. Describe it to yourself. Describe yourself.”

Even at thirteen, fourteen, you were questioning, a Doubting Thomas, and you held more interest in the artistry, the pageantry of the faith — the stained glass windows and the gravitas of the priests. The crescendo of the songs, the rise and fall of the Hallelujahs. The Latin. Always the Latin.

Yet you wanted to believe. You always wanted to believe. You wanted to feel something. You wanted to feel it in your heart like your mother did when her fingers moved across the rosary beads, but you never did.

You felt reverence in other ways. Your heart felt big — so big, too big for your chest — when you drove through the mountains with your family or you passed through with friends. When you stood against the ocean or watched a storm come through.

You felt grandeur in the ways that made you feel small and reminded you we’re just infinitesimally tiny. But in that church, in those pews, you look at that crucifix and you don’t seem to see it.

But you go. You go every Sunday. You go each Sunday and you go those holy days of obligation. Your fingers move across the rosary beads.

And yet, you don’t feel it in your heart. Not at the stained glass windows nor the gravitas of the priests. Not even the crescendo of the songs. Even when it came time for the rise and fall of the Hallelujahs. Or even the Eucharist.

You wanted to feel the holiness — the reverence — when you walked, head bowed, into a cathedral. But it was just a building. It was beautiful, yes, but you didn’t feel God there.

You felt God in other ways: standing at the ocean, looking as far past the water as you could; driving through mountains; and when you flew. Any time the world reminded you how small you were.

But a church, even a cathedral, that wasn’t it. Those were man-made. Something manufactured to make us feel something, and you’d rather feel God out there somewhere.

But you were young then, you were thirteen, fourteen. Questioning. Doubting. And small. Even the sound of the choir did not shrink you even smaller than you already were.

The metallic clanking of the thurible at the priest’s side as the fragrant scent of frankincense wafts toward you, and you did not grow more expansive, nor did you shrink.

You doubted, but still, you plunged forward with a faith you weren’t sure you believed in.

Isabelle Palerma

Shout til Free: a Poem

With a concept from kiki_poetry, I am using a line of poetry from an Asian-American or Pacific Islander poet in honor of AAPI Heritage Month.

Today’s line comes from a poem by Sally Wen Mao, “Anna May Wong Stars as Cyborg #86”. As per kiki_poetry’s instructions, I will italicize the line from “Anna May Wong Stars as Cyborg #86”.

Trigger Warning: Dark themes.

For so long –
too long –
the victors controlled our story.
They told the ending,
wrapped the packaging,
gave it a tidy bow,
and flavored how others saw us.

The men called us “hysterical”.
The rapists said we were “bitches”.
Mothers who found us unlovable
deemed us “troublemakers”.

They all took their turns throwing us
to the wolves,
feeding us
to those with hungry teeth
and starving eyes.

Let’s hijack the narrative,
steer the story ourselves.

We will fight the enemy.
Swim the rising current.
Dance in the streets
the Tarantella.
No longer grit our teeth
but scream if we must.

Shout
and shout
until we are heard
because we will steer this narrative.

Shift this story
from hysterical
to alive,
to fully alive
and aware.

Change our stories
from man-made mythology
to truth.

The truth will free us.

Isabelle Palerma

If I Forget: a Poem

With a concept from kiki_poetry, I am using a line of poetry from an Asian-American or Pacific Islander poet in honor of AAPI Heritage Month.

Today’s line comes from a poem by Don Mee Choi, “Wings of Return”. As per kiki_poetry’s instructions, I will italicize the line from “Wings of Return”.

If I forget your name, please forgive me, I’m not myself today. My memories have memories all their own. Sometimes, the memories come. Sometimes, they go.

They have a word for this, you know. What’s the word? My memory isn’t what it used to be.

You wouldn’t understand. You’re just so young. Too young. When I was your age. When I was young.

My memories have memories all their own. Memory’s memory. Memory’s child. My memory lives inside a dust-filled armoire, inside a hope chest, inside a rarely looked at steamer trunk.

My memories are the children of ancestors whose names we’ve forgotten. We’ve forgotten so much.

If I forget your name, please forgive me, I’m not myself today. Sometimes, the memories come. Sometimes, they go. You wouldn’t understand.

You’re just so young. Too young. When I was your age. When I was young. When I was young. When I was young…

When I was young, I didn’t forget so much.

Isabelle Palerma

The Year I Graduated: a Poem

With a concept from kiki_poetry, I am using a line of poetry from an Asian-American or Pacific Islander poet in honor of AAPI Heritage Month.

This line comes from a poem by Hieu Minh Nguyen, “The Study”. As per kiki_poetry’s instructions, I will italicize the line from “The Study”.

I took up many hobbies that year.
I suppose many people did.
I know of people who began baking
out of boredom.
Some started playing word puzzles.
Others, in their isolation, turned toward
the solace of family and friends,
but
when I think of that year,
no one has a face.
I went to school and came home.
The only ones I remember truly
are the ones that really mattered.
The ones that I saw every day.
The open faces who taught me the things
I needed to know
and the ones I loved.
But most were a phantom.
Just strangers posing as friends.
Colleagues pretending to be more.
And those I passed in hallways
who now are nothing more than whispers.
These were voices
but are now forgotten.
Faces
now anonymous collages.
Something I thought I built
now collapsed.
It was a year of hard work with nothing
to show for except a piece of paper
buried underneath a pile of books.
Nothing more to show for except
a pile of names like obituaries
and memorials of the dead
in a year of a pandemic.

Isabelle Palerma

Whole & Perfect (as Us): a Poem

With a concept from kiki_poetry, I am using a line of poetry from an Asian-American or Pacific Islander poet in honor of AAPI Heritage Month.

I do realize I’m late to the month’s theme, but I hope to make up for it in the next few days.

Today’s line comes from a poem by Sarah Gambito, “Yolanda”. As per kiki_poetry’s instructions, I will italicize the line from “Yolanda”.

I gazed upon you, and you were
a divine feast,
flawless in your imperfections
and everything about you shrieked
neediness.
We were so far from what we came from –
godliness and purity,
and yet,
nonetheless, when we made love,
weeping with each other’s blood
in our eyes,
we stared
and witnessed one another
as whole
and perfect.