Outside the Church
The sun is setting
on the brick roads
around St. Bernadette's.
Her statue is next to my car.
She kneels before Mary
hands clasped, faith apparent.
Tonight they prayed --
the young couples toward the front
the old people one hand on their hearts
the children mumbling to themselves
"Lord, make us saints, give us
strength to bear the cross." But I
could not say the words. I saw
the roots of St. Appollonia's teeth
clenched in the pinchers
St. Lucy's eyes held out before her
on a golden plate.
So I mouthed them like a coward
and fled into the summer air
where I thought I would find Your forgiveness.
Instead all I can see is:
St. Christopher on my dashboard,
the burden on his shoulders.
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