I would go to Mass, if I could be alone there
to love the dim light, the flowers,
and place a nickel in the plate, when the nickel is all I have.
We hang on our crosses,
hang around after death,
hang our hopes on a rose stem that bends and vanishes.
Here is a rose.
Here is a coin.
Here I am, tiny in this vast space.
I would go to Mass, if you would come with me.
If you would whisper to me that's it's all true,
and does not die--
the dogs I've had,
the women I've loved,
and the men, too.
"Peace be with you."
"And also with you."
peace is overrated;
give me a dream about a nun's kiss
and a sacred heart that stays, like a nickel in a rose bower.
139 words (so sue me) for Magaly's "Dearest Book, I Wrote You A Poem."
The book I wrote for is Robert Girardi's novel "Madeleine's Ghost."
Image at top: Maud Feely, 1910.