Renovation in the St. Cecelia School Gymnasium
BY LAUREN BERRY
For weeks,
the wet paint scent
surrounded
our white necks.
We undressed
in the science labs,
our locker room
in a kind of ruin
only women can do—
our damp lace on the floor
for the longest of days
and the men
afraid to go near it
it seemed. Rosetta left
the fogged up
crucifix necklace
her mother bought her
when she began to bleed
and so we
knew that it was in there, pure
gold under the tile for a year;
it glared out at
the razorblade
that I offered.
This is no accident.
The men wading
through the dust
of the red tiles
and the brown tiles
and the versions of ourselves
that we left
for the men to repair.
