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"I had rather see coming toward me a whole regiment with drawn swords than one lone Calvinist convinced he is doing the will of God." ~Anonymous

every sunrise the stained-glass Mary glows

projecting herself through the recorded sermon

luminous over vacant pews and polished floors

and the Universe freezes the place

through splits and creeds and scandal

She shines

staid in the frigid stone

and hasn't burned through yet.

the collection plates are filled

with dust and bones and gold

rust and blood and velvet give color to the light

and no one is around, no one sees

For those who lose themselves in dogma

ever cry to the omnipresent Universe

of women

mothers like You, harmless

with dirty hands and tattered shoes

and sleepless dreams,

of scars long healed

still red with newness,

and winged statues, ever cold,

guarding the air of the place

hushing the unwary

they cry until the deaf remain

Mary, how do you shine on this

and stay immaculate?

why does the sun rise through you

when there is no light inside?

why allow the avowedly blind sight?

why shine without reflection,

inspire where there is no thought,

advise those whose questions have been taken from them?

why give solace to those who deny pleasure?

why herd sheep

when dogs have been trained

for more milennia

more legacies

than you have known?

are you the Lady or the Serpent?

the only answers in the decaying stone

come as echoes and a recorded hymn

the sterile cool silence that falls between the notes

and the shine of the blood that tints the silver collection plates.

no one lives here any longer

save for the saints

who stand vigil over the dust tumbling through the sun

as the doors close.

the seven o'clock service is about to begin.

shine brightly, Mary,

let your color start out deep red

filter out the same inside

as the demons take their seats,

our lives.

they might notice you sometime.

something new could happen—

someone could see—

someday—

there have, after all, been miracles.