Deliver Me from Purity

by Isabel Dorn

Every sound is a serpent
when all fruit is forbidden
so hungry women exist
in a most intimate hell.
They said hands are dangerous
things for a girl to have
because they reach into possibility
and claim what she desires.
All ladies are taught to hide
their hunger. I’ve learned to bind
my own hands
like my fingers are laden
with poisonous thorns
like the quietest brush of
my knuckles against yours
would set your fair skin aflame.
I’ve learned to shrink my body
from the specter of your warmth, watching
your shadow like a rear-view
mirror to avoid disaster. I’ve learned to hoard
every image of you,
stealing glances and breath
in your presence until even looking
feels like sacrilege. I’ve learned to lower
my gaze from your beauty, never letting
my eyes linger too long on your
fingers curling around your ballpoint pen
and the pulse of life in
your naked throat, because shame
turns the entire body to temptation
until even a glimpse of
your neck is obscene.

I’ve learned to see sin
in every corner of the garden
until the only light I know
is hellfire. And now I fear
not even the love of God
can deliver me from purity.

Isabel Dorn (she/her) is a graduate student who uses poetry to examine the complexities of intersectionality and coming of age in the 21st century. As a Vietnamese American woman, she sees writing as a powerful tool for social justice and strives to create more visibility for underrepresented groups with her work.