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
as an eyelet.