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Wearing a Scarf of Recycled Sari Yarn, I Want Other Gods It pours over my white habit like a tropical cocktail, so many lemons, mangos, even my mea culpas are strawberry. In the refectory window, the reflection of my veil becomes black hair, and I touch the extra bead on my rosary, the vanity I haven’t prayed away. I will only go so far with Jesus, won’t undress completely, like a mistress He visits in another town who perfumes His tired feet, listens to His miracles. I’m not one of the wives washing lepers in Calcutta, raped in el salvador. It’s okay being lukewarm. the morning I met mother teresa, I tried to pull a thread from the blue trim of her sari, and, I swear, my hand burned for days. –  – ...

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