The tulle veil

was bone china

white and thin.

A breakable wisp.
It was fleeting.

Mother snapped

shots of it

on Sundays. 
I sat in the family

rocking chair

in the unused room

with ankles crossed.
Swirl feel

under the skirt

of my church dress.

It lived there.
A lace sash

tied off

access to

the pure me.
My holiness

sewn

delicate
 
as an eyelet.
Tammy Robacker is our Poet in Residence for June.

Previously published in Chiron Review, Winter 2015; and Villain Songs (ELJ Editions 2017).