When I say I think Jesus was a teenage girl Sinking Song I Miss You but I’m not Missing You

When I say I think Jesus was a teenage girl

EMMA MAILE BUCKMAN

I only mean that all the evidence points in that direction: luscious long hair, off-brand Birkenstocks, the earliest known instance of a T-shirt dress. If the Bible is to be believed,

Jesus died for sins that weren’t his own sacrifi ced himself for something that literally wasn’t his cross to bear. What’s more woman than taking the blame for sins of older men? What’s more woman than saving everyone except for yourself?

I want to be sacred. And if you want to play God I’ll let you. If you want to be prophet I’ll believe you. If you tell me selfimmolation is the only way to be loved I’ll follow your ten commandments.

I’ll take your scissors of divinity and cut out parts of myself like a paper snowfl ake. Unfold me and call the missing pieces holy. I’ll shape myself into whatever you consider beautiful. I’ll eat the apple; I’ll listen to the snake as long as he whispers promises of knowing (that I am enough).

I promise to bathe in your holy water until I am cleaned of all trace of woman. (Will it ever be enough?) Men in white robes promise me that God loves all his children. God loves all his children but more in an absentee-father kind of way. God loves all his children but he lets their calls go to voicemail, sends a belated text informing you that he’s running out of miracles. Selfi sh girl.

Foolish woman. Witch and sinner.

I call for an angel and only the Devil picks up the phone. He tells me that Original Sin isn’t so bad. He tells me that falling from grace can feel like fl ying. Oh how the mighty have fallen. Oh how the fallen are mighty.

And after we talk maybe I’ll sell my soul for a few answers. Maybe I’ll sell my soul just to know if it’s worth anything.

Or maybe I’ll keep it for myself to prove its worth saving Salvation is in the hands of the sacred, and I’m taking these hands back for myself.

I think I might need them.

vvoennyy

Sinking Song

EMMA MAILE BUCKMAN

Fire belongs to the beholder / flames lick the walls of a sinking ship -The captain has struck a match: floating ashes instead.

The last remnants of a saltwater heart sing the song of sirens of sacrifice of self-destruction

burning lost things before you can lose them there are no Goodbyes here only endings.

Emma Maile Buckman is a writer and student at the University of California, Santa Barbara. She is currently writing poetry and short stories while working toward a Bachelor of Arts in linguistics and philosophy. A member of the university’s Poets’ Club, she is passionate about literature, language, and the ocean.

vvoennyy

vvoennyy

I Miss You but I’m not Missing You

EMMA MAILE BUCKMAN

My fiancé tells me he wants to give me a set of earrings for our anniversary: silver studs in the shape of crescent moons. “And I’ll get the sun”: his earlobes crowned by two golden helios “So we can be each other’s missing pieces”

Sun and moon. Silver and gold.

I want to say that I do not have anything missing, but I just nod.

It’s only jewelry. A heart is a fragile thing, and I don’t mind sharing; I don’t even mind if you break it, if you want to. I won’t hold it against you.

Every child on the playground learns that sometimes you share what’s yours and sometimes people are careless with things that don’t belong to them. That doesn’t mean you stop sharing. That doesn’t mean those things stop being yours.

You can hold my heart but I won’t take it out of my chest for you. This is mine. Whole in all of its mismatched pieces.