Alene Terzian-Zeitounian
If I had a time machine, I would tell
you the suffering isn’t worth the fame,
the way they exalt your name, light candles,
set the church rafters ablaze; I would tell
you to walk into the river after
the first knee buckle, foot drag, retinal spot.
I would walk beside you, gathering stones
then sink us until the cool river floor
absorbed our weight. And there, Lidwina, we
would be free of it—the kindness, mercy,
the prying and praying, the medallions
they wear around their necks in our honor.
There, we would not be afflicted, chronic;
we would dissolve into that which made us.
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