Illustration by Mel Wang
Christ. I’ve cried in all the Catholic
Churches on the Upper West Side.
I lit too many candles and never paid.
I kept my hands folded and genuflected
before sitting. Kneeling. I kept my hands
folded and asked you to save my mother’s soul
when she dies. To take my mother’s soul
out from under the Little Caesers 40 miles
from Atlanta. That she may be saved from
endless highways and Home Goods and
the grief-stricken walls of her quiet home.
When I tell you to do these things I feel
as though I am screaming at myself. Dear
God. I am praying for my mother, not
myself. I am praying for myself. Dear God
I’m praying to you I’m keeping my
hands folded I tore the skin off my thumbs
despite the fact that my nails are dull and
unpainted. Shut up about that one. And
holy shit, I’m not guilty. I came to you.
And I’m talking about my mother, not
myself.
Anika Agustin Malhotra (BC ‘24, she/her) is a Computer Science major; she listens to jazz; she is from the South.