was there a moment before
you stepped onto the cloak
draped over the waves
where you thought
this sea will swallow me?
how did the ocean feel
rippling under the soles
of your feet?
did the salt stain your
poppy red cloak?
when you drifted ashore,
could you smell
all the miles you’d crossed,
all the schools of fish
who followed your light?
Andre’s heart must have
called out from the shrine
thumping inside gold
whispering from behind
braided ropes
you grabbed the reliquary
and walked it down the street
like a lantern, as if it could
light the way back home
in the middle of the night
a heat radiates all the way
upstairs to your bed
wakes you up
draws you down
into the basement
to feel the warmth
of a single organ
you were so
compelled
to steal
___________
AWESOME story behind Brother Andre's stolen heart: http://archives.cbc.ca/arts_entertainment/visual_arts/topics/1437-9367/
You fell in a flurry of poppy red
vestments on your way to buy
some eggs & sugar.
They decided on a glass case
for burial, complete with the
finest ring to remember,
even in death, that you are
the spouse of God.
There is a quiet crumbling
beneath the wax face
covering your own,
a falling away of cheeks,
lips that curl back into
your mouth, and those teeth
that remain, vibrating
with their own quiet song.
As these knee socks fall,
I would like it if you,
Mother Seton, would
guide me through these
days of bruised elbows,
scuffed shoes,
and prayers that get
tangled in my teeth.
Please don’t tell anyone
that I’ve got sweater
pockets full of acorns
that I clench in my palms
during Mass.
Instead of showering
after gym class, I splash
some water on my face,
and let the water run.
I apologize.
However, I am curious
(and terrified) of Sister
who pours milk over
the heads of boys
in the hallway.
It mixes with their tears
in rivulets that race down
their noses, past their belts
(tightly buckled) and pools
at their feet.
He holds your head underwater and the golden cross
around your neck clatters against your teeth.
Your hair, spread like a frond, your hands, clenched tight
behind your back, fingernails imprinting skinny moons
on your palms. The man’s touch on the back of your head
radiates with a holy fire. You feel it searing
straight through your skin and on to your heart,
which flutters with the same rhythm as the wheat in Nanterre.
You fill your lungs with home.
There is no need to panic.
I doubt that the weary-eyed woman
behind the hospital desk
thinks of you, Basil the Great,
as she files those x-rays
of breaks and splintered bone
all those disasters under flesh.
If she asked you to reveal
the mystery of a cloud
around the heart,
would you oblige?
At home, she dreams
that none of these diagnoses
are real. The children go home,
the grandfathers wake up,
and the cancer slips away
like a ribbon at the beach.
This gets her through the night.
Would you say that
she is simply an interpreter
who explains visions in sleep
to make them serve her own end?
Doctor of the Church,
if only she was sleeping,
if only these graphs and charts
told something other than the truth.
our lady of the snow
you open your mouth
and a light comes out
like stars, like a moon
burst open, bitten into
like a strawberry
against white skin
which is a myth
in and of itself
you are an apparition
a hallucination on the mountain
a motherly hand
guiding the bullet’s path
a face in the fog
a statue with tears
a way to communicate
beyond airwaves
how did the sky
know you were ready?
tell me how
to let the light in
