The clouds poured that day
When my mother took me in the church
I kneeled in front of a porcelain Mary
Who glared down in righteousness
So full of herself, i thought.

She should be a figure of strength
A warrior even, made by her virginal status
But you are still porcelain, I snarled
A slight push
And to pieces you go.

In the fear of the Divine
I confessed my sins
Her smile still cold and smirk like
Laughing ay my earthly worries
Dismissing my lonely sorrow.

I looked up again in pain and anger
Smothered by fear and angst
To be met with my mother’s face
Who stood in porcelain
Looking down in righteousness.

The bookshelves around the television sound like ancient mothers telling their stories through yellowed, crinkled pages of spells and the angels give guidance
Silently,graciously
through the cards while they display their faces to the room, quietly pleading and waiting for you to read them.
Hear what they have to say,
whisper through your ears and listen through your mouth, the angels are speaking dear.
Pray if you must, and the Gods have blessed the birdcage to open and release the iced ****** Mary that has slept away her winter cold.
She stands tall, with grace and without shame of her ****-ness and she looks at you.
Her mouth opens to speak, but it sounds like space.  
She’s shocked and squeezes her hand down her throat to pull the phrase out.
Her hand comes up and a lily petal lays soft in saliva.
She looks to you again, and when your eyes meet,
She chokes and gags.
Stumbles to her knees, the ****** Mary spews up lily petals now.
Your throat is burned from bile climbing up.
a faint smell of lily flowers and you blink.
You are on your knees, skin cold without cloth, and you try to shout “help, let me out!”
But the only thing that comes from your mouth is lily petal after lily petal.
A card slides in front of you, number III of Swords.
'Dear Mary, climb back to your cage and you are safe in there. No wretch may touch you with heartbreak and reject, come home Dear Mary,
It is you whom i select.'

I once read a poem,
About a god, swan and woman,
And thought about
The Annunciation;
A dove descended,
From position of power.
With no proposition,
But an edict in it's beak;
Flapped naked,
Before the deed.
Blessed is the fruit of thy womb...
She heard.
No... No... No...
Can we talk.