The holy cardinal said:
who bare rib?
fresh cut new did,
he said -- who is this?
He slowly tread; wrangled thee
there's a 4x4 in his 20/20,
he asked -- “double play?”
the kid ran away

sometimes, i look at dainty strong marble effigies
of the ****** mary holding her birth-bloodied son
and wonder if some loves aren't meant for everyone.

chastity-locked inside my heart, there's a woman
who wears long sundresses and lives in the little mac and cheese potluck moments;
she prays her rosary and feels the warm arms
of her traditional husband who loves her as a duty.

as for jesus, well, he's a cheap plastic figurine
she bought from ebay and stuck on the dashboard of her car;
the heat melted his feet in a crucifixion of 2020
but he still stands, wobbly and shaky and commercialised.
when she travels, she prays to him for safety.

(she doesn't travel a lot. she's happy to be stagnant and pray for still waters every morning.)

who cares about my heart, though?
who loves unconditionally and always,
and sees through the rips of cartilage and crushed aorta -
who will look and look and look
and see me? sorry, see me? sorry, see me out.

sometimes, i want to be a child again;
cradled in my mother's arms. sometimes,
i want to no longer put my dreams on hold.
sometimes, i want the world to look at me and say
"hey, pontius pilate, there's another one for martyrdom."

O Mother of He who is Love Himself
I run to your golden abode. Seek for me the grace
to be like you.
To love like you,
to serve like you
to obey like you.
May my mind be Heaven bound,
Seeking the good with my hands
Speaking the truth with love
Sharing my warmth and your light.
Take from me the darkness,
the weight that weighs me down
making my eyes heavy and teary.
Fill me with your light, that I may never falter,
on my path, to share the love.

No greater love than that of the Man who died on a cross, who even after agony and suffering, being crowned with thorns and mocked, with all of His last breath, believed I was worth it all.

Everything for the man who died on a cross, who even in his last hour, believed I was worth it all.

This is the cup of the new and everlasting covenant
Shed for you and for all, so that our sins may be forgiven...

Do this in memory of Me.

In memory of the spooky parochial school halls
In memory of the wizened nuns, quietly obedient
In memory of the over-simplicity of rules
In memory of false piety laced with hypocrisy
In memory of crushing inadequacy

Do this, in memory of me, the child.

In memory of the child whose uniform never quite fit
Whose body developed too early
Who had trouble making friends
Who didn't have enough discipline

Do this, do that, don't do this, don't do that
So many tiny rules and expectations
to love, serve and obey

Black rosary beads
Holy prayers uttered to God
Penance for my sins

father,
it has been over a decade
since my last confession;
in fact,
that crisp lenten day,
you in your purple,
I refused to come in,
giggling,
because I had committed nothing
worth an intermediary.

under lock and key,
anxious not to make trouble,
a natural people pleaser,
what could I child do but
laugh at sin?

today my prayers are mingled -
mangled,
a clutter of languages and deities:
my god is one but also many.
I’m not even Catholic anymore,
But for old time’s sake,
will you listen?