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In the Shower, She Sees White Roses a wet thigh, neck, soapy red hair, she finds her body here— places she can’t even name anymore, her veil and scapular draped over the toilet. she would die for a full-length mirror to see if her butt is really as big as it feels, if fasting cures more than just the soul. saint Catherine did it well, years of communion wafers and water, bedridden, but holy and lean. and Catherine got something else— four hours of ecstatic union with god, who must have been pleased by what He saw, a woman dying to be with Him. when hot water hits the curve of her back, sometimes flowers rise from porcelain tiles, and she wonders if He is here— a bouquet or at least a corsage to pin on her small breast. –  – ...

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