the boy enters when he knows
others will not be there
in prayer--their silent entreaties
to a god he is not sure
listens or cares
morning after mass is best;
the bouquets are fresh
he can smell them once
the scent of the early
worshipers fades:
the pipe smoke from the old man's
coat
the widow's perfume which lingers longer than the ammonia stench
of the holy homeless who is there
every day
Christ watches over this:
a white marble man bolted
to a cross, witnessing
this spectacle for millennia
long before this cold statue
was placed in this cathedral,
he was there, the slaughtered lamb
cursed to die again and again
that is how the boy sees it;
not a promised life eternal,
but the same death anon,
anon
the pounding of the stakes,
the blood offering: the old man, the woman, the mendicant
all crucifying him again with
each plaintive prayer
once their odors fade,
the funeral sprays, the bouquets
remain--cut, dying flowers,
a fragrant impermanence
with no expectation for life
beyond their time in the
vase--no imploring a godhead
for forgiveness
no demand for blood
and perpetual death
only a little water for their brief journey
in fragile glass