we drove from the temple
(your first time through that hushed
and holy space, just days before
you donned that black-and-white
nametag and flew off to Buenos Aires)
straight to your favorite restaurant
to celebrate this happy rite of passage
lime and cilantro mingled in a spicy jarana;
we kept time to the clinking and clattering of
dishes as we bamba-ed our way to our table
and took our seats
we were our own airy
island, floating high above
the dust of daily things
and then—
I slumped, and tipped into your
startled sister’s lap, victim of
a violent inward rupture, and I was
sinking, sinking, sinking into
thick, dark sludge—a
brown-yellow wormhole beyond
consciousness or thought
too cramped for movement
too dense for breath
down
down
down
as if dragged into the inky bowels
of something ancient and smothering
and then—
like a bright-white laser splitting stone,
your voice—a trumpet call.
“By the authority of . . .”
those unpracticed earnest words
pierced the viscous bog
reached my flattened brain
and pulled me
up, up, up
into the air, into the light.
Sharlee Mullins Glenn has published articles, essays, poetry, and criticism in periodicals as varied as Women's Studies, The Southern Literary Journal, the New York Times, and Ladybug Magazine. She is also a nationally-published author of children's books. Sharlee currently serves on a number of boards and volunteers with several humanitarian and advocacy organizations. She and her husband, James, live in Pleasant Grove, Utah and have five children and eight (perfect) grandchildren.
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