In the Circle -- a Mother's Day poem about the temple, queerness, and neglect
“In the Circle”
When I was nineteen,
I stood in a circle
dressed like a whisper.
White from collar to ankle,
barefoot,
holding hands with a woman
I had known my whole life
and never quite met.
They said:
This is the true order of prayer.
But it felt more like
learning a dance
with all the mirrors removed.
Her hand in mine
was the temperature of porcelain—
not cold,
just untouched.
She stared ahead
like revelation might finally look back.
And I stared at the space
between our fingers,
trying to remember
if we had ever held hands
before this.
We turned toward the altar.
Voices rose in quiet unison.
I pressed my palm
against my mother’s palm
and felt the absence
like it was printed into her skin.
I never learned how to carry
the weight of a man’s name—
only that it was handed to me
like a toolbelt:
Here’s your hammer.
Here’s your silence.
Here’s your hunger you’re not allowed to name.
We stood shoulder to shoulder
in that circle of believers,
pretending our softness was reverence
and not a threat.
I repeated the ancient words.
I stood still in the choreography
and called it faith.
I watched my mother vanish
beneath her veil
and wondered
if God would recognize her
before I did.
I didn’t know what I believed.
But I believed in the ache of it,
in the gravity of hands
touching gently,
without needing a reason
other than this is how we reach heaven.
Now
I live outside that circle.
I have unbuckled the belt.
Loosened the name.
Asked questions
the ceremony refused to answer.
There are layers I am still scraping off,
dried wax from wood grain—
what the patriarchy left behind
when it burned through
everything soft.
But sometimes,
in the soft animal dark of early morning,
I remember how the room held us—
twelve bodies, or something like them,
standing so still
it almost felt like peace.
I still say the words sometimes,
in the shower,
or while folding laundry:
O God, hear the words of my mouth.
And I do not know
who I’m speaking to—
only that I am still
the same creature
who once wept
at the quiet of a hand resting on their shoulder
and wanted it to mean
something like love.