I Won’t Have Mary’s Hips
I wrote this poem about the rage I have felt toward my fundamentalist Christian school experience.
I Won’t Have Mary’s Hips
1.
Barely anything remains
of the life once prescribed to me by doctors
wearing vestments, preaching
that the salvation for my sickness
was a steadfast belief in my innate
awfulness. The end times began
for me back in Babylon when I refused to bow
to that man’s image, so was sent to the fire
alongside three Hebrew men.
Only, instead of dying, I came out
with a halo of my sentencer’s flames, licking
the ash from my lips.
2.
I have spent a decade undoing
the damage of your malpractice,
where you never accurately diagnosed
my long arms as the culprit.
You insisted I had to wear shorts
that met my fingertips,
even if they didn't fit. Actually,
explain that to me—how
does that make sense?
Legs are mere limbs
plus the sins of my brothers
in Christ were never not forgiven;
what did it matter if they tripped?
In fact, what white Jesus gave you the confidence
to stick a ruler up to my pelvis
then pull me from class
just to sit in your office
until my inseam had lengthened
to something you deemed appropriate?
3.
Last night I had sex
with a man and a woman; past me
would have gasped in horrified
wanting. The kindling existed
back then in my belly; now
I have no hesitation
when lighting that match.
Look now at my garden, or teacup,
or however you want to frame
a woman’s Mary hips; you’ll see
my fingerprints bruised all over it.
I tore up the flowers
so weeds would grow.
The teacup isn’t just chipped,
it’s a goddamn mosaic.
4.
Now I know what you’re thinking:
“She must be sick.”
So you probably won’t believe me
when I say: I know what I’ve lost,
and I would do it all again
for everything
in my life is now here
because I consciously chose it.
First Draft — 28dec2025
I turn the light on and look
Seeing myself staring back at me
The neutral stare instead of forced smile
The rounded stomach and thighs
The short curly hair that reaches just below my chin
What I see in the mirror is
Someone who's been set free
Of the burdens and cages that bound me
To the rules of who I was meant to be
Medium Draft
My soul had always been
made of sunshine;
it just only became apparent
after I dusted the ash off
each layer of my skin.
I’ve existed so long
in 90s tv static, obscured
by the charred remains
of my life as prescribed
by doctors, pastors, and parents.
Now I find myself in the mirror,
round face, smirking lips,
golden curls a ring of flames
I will never work to tame.
There’s a lot I’ve lost
to these flames,
a lot I've also gained.
I burned in hell
to get here, yes,
I’d do it all again.
Writing Notes
My writing became infinitely stronger when I let myself lean all the way into the emotions gurgling under my polite-society-exterior and actually explore and express what was there and which usually passed me by in an instant.
This poem became its final form—instead of what I’m calling the “medium draft” —after my very first session of my very first acting class (the beginners course at LB Acting Studio, based in Toronto!). In that class, our instructor shared that all emotions exist within us at all times, we simply aren’t aware of them because we’ve learned, as part of growing up, to filter them.
For example: if you were really angry at a coworker, you’re not going to scream at them in an all-hands meeting. (Well…some people might. But I’d argue those people haven’t quite learned how to grow up.) Instead, your body will clench up as you determine: how, if at all, do I want to express this? For most adults, the answer is a lot less than screaming at a coworker.
This is an important skill to have in order to exist as an adult in society today, and it’s important as artists to be able to experience and express the emotion without filtering. That’s where some of our most resonant work will be.
Why is that what’s most resonant? Because, to paraphrase my acting instructor, in creating art that fully feels that emotion, we’re essentially carrying the experience of said emotion and/or reality for our audience. Humans don’t get to just go around feeling each of their emotions incredibly deeply and sans filter. Interacting with art allows them that experience in an environment that’s somewhat controlled and therefore somewhat “safer”-feeling.
This poem sat at that “medium draft” state for many months. I liked it and didn’t really see a need to fully overhaul it. However, immediately after ending that first acting class where our practice was to feel and express emotions—such as anger—without a filter, I looked at this poem and knew it needed to be angrier.
The final result really surprised me, because these days I rarely feel rage toward my fundamentalist Christian school days anymore. Yet apparently tapping into that emotion of rage in my acting class allowed me to say what I really needed to say in this poem, and out came I Won’t Have Mary’s Hips.
To begin the rewrite, you’ll notice I latched onto that idea of the “life prescribed by doctors, pastors, and parents,” ultimately changing that to “doctors wearing vestments.” I strongly felt that both the doctor and the priest/pastor image needed to be there, because so many of the ways I now “sin” (in their eyes) are things that many of the religious leaders I grew up with would liken to a sickness (e.g. being queer).
I was also really committed to the idea of my curls being a crown/halo of flames. Initially I considered going the “purification by flames” route with the image, but then I remembered the Bible story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. In case you don’t know the story from the book of Daniel, the short version is: these three men wouldn’t bow down to/worship a King, and so were sent into said King’s furnace to die. However, they were joined in the furnace by a fourth figure—an angel—and ultimately came out unharmed. This miracle changed the King’s perception of them, and he began worshipping their (the Hebrew/Jewish) God instead of asking to be worshipped.
Stanza-by-stanza breakdown:
There’s so much I could say about the layers of that image in this poem, but I’m trying not to make this a 5,000 word email. The high level is: notice that I positioned myself as the fourth figure—the angel—in this story. I love the implications of the me of today—someone who many from my Christian upbringing would really dislike (and pray for)—being a messenger of God.
From the first stanza, I also love:
The line break after “I came out” which signals one of my ‘sins’ (being queer) that I later address in stanza 3
The alliteration of “salvation for my sickness / was steadfast…” followed by the strong “s” sound in “awfulness” — very serpent-like (IYKYK)
Regarding that doctor and sickness bit, I was also thinking of Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet, letter 8 where he discusses how sometimes we must be the doctor and the patient (highly recommend reading if you haven’t) — though I don’t think this reference fully fits here/it’s more just something that was in my mind while writing
The call to the “end times” — a Biblical reference used here to signal, in part, the moment when I decided to extricate myself from fundamentalist Christianity
“...I refused to bow / to that man’s image” — who is “that man”? It could be multiple people (e.g. pastors, teachers, God himself)
Once I had the basic rewrite of that first stanza, it was easy to carry on from there. I was also fully in the unfiltered rage vibes now, which made words and images flow even more. Stanza two goes into a very specific detail of my schooling experience: having my body and clothing policed at every turn, for fear that if I, a ‘girl/woman,’ wore something ‘too revealing,’ I might make the boys in my school (“my brothers in Christ”) stumble.
I like that I carried the doctor image from stanza 1 into the “malpractice” and “accurately diagnosed”
The “Actually, / explain that to me—how / does that make sense?” question feels like my present-day adult self going back to sit in my then-Principal’s office (hi Mr. Sullivan) and advocate for my high school self (and her friends) like no one ever did
The line, “what did it matter if they tripped” was a late addition that came from one of my many re-readings, when I realized: wait, it literally didn’t matter whether I did or didn’t make my “brothers in Christ” stumble, because all they had to do was confess those sins to their church or youth group or wherever and they’d be lauded as ‘a man of Christ’ for it (in some ways, it was almost good for their reputation if they did sin, so that they could publicly confess and ask for forgiveness so that suddenly they’d be seen as ‘Godly’ swoon)
Oof, that final question in stanza 2 (“In fact, / what white Jesus gave you the confidence / to stick a ruler up to my pelvis / then pull me from class / just to sit in your office / until my inseam had lengthened / to something you deemed appropriate?”) is pure rage — I love it
I questioned for a moment whether I was ready to proclaim publicly that “Last night I had sex / with a man and a woman” in stanza 3, but the unfiltered rage was on a roll so I went with it. Now it’s an integral part of the poem so, surprise! I sometimes have threesomes. I love the line break between “horrified / wanting” because yeah, that was the truth. I always was curious about things like that, but high school Carly was also so afraid of sex before marriage (and frankly, just sex) that she never would have let herself really think about it.
The second half of stanza 3 pulls a lot from my youth group and Bible class experiences, where the teacup was a commonly cited metaphor for female sexual purity. I expanded on this with a garden metaphor of a woman's sexual purity as a beautiful garden of flowers for her husband—which I’m not sure now whether I ever actually heard that, or if I maybe just made it up for this poem's purposes. Then, probably my favorite part of the poem: “however you want to frame / a woman’s Mary hips; you’ll see / my fingerprints bruised all over it.” Initially, I tried out the words “pure” and “virgin” to describe my hips, but then I realized that Mary—Jesus’ virgin mother—was the perfect image to capture all of that and more. I’m also fucking obsessed with the highly-sexual image of fingerprint-shaped bruises all over a womans’ hips.
Finally, how to end such a rage-filled poem? Stanza 4 sees me directly addressing the audience—which, upon re-reading, I’ve decided is mostly speaking directly to my high school principal as well as my Bible class teachers. It was a bit of a ‘kill your darlings’ moment to have to get rid of the final lines of my medium draft (“I burned in hell / to get here, yes, / I’d do it all again”), but they just weren’t fitting with the new poem. It felt like I’d essentially already said that throughout the final draft, so I needed to now say something different. Ultimately, I realized that what was most important for both me and the audience of this poem to know was that I consciously chose every aspect of this life I’m now living, and so that’s what I ended with!
