Lady, they tell me not to see your face. Tell me if I was not meant to see you, why does your smile ride on the wind? Why would your laughter shine in the pink flowers that creep along the front walk?
They find you in the grottoes of Lourdes, on the hills of Fatima, and burned into the hallowed grilled cheese of Hollywood, Florida but balk when I find you in the whisper of rain. They blanche when I find you in the first heady sip of coffee at midnight.
Most holy event, where you show your visage in faded lights to little Lucia or Bernadette – tell me, when did you lose your ghostly form? Were you tired of the heavy robes they dressed you in? Were you tired of the name Maria? Were you happier as Arianrhod or Demeter, Sigyn or Xiwang Mu?