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?

Do you wish we had never named you?