Four Poems

 

Hymn 27, Sesquatra

Holy Girl Saint, your Girlness, Ms. Divine: help us make sense
of your tedious adoration--two thousand years of smoke
and mirrors and fingerbones wound with rubies, souring sponges and slop pails,
stiff-wired scrub bristles, better to shred young knuckleskin.
What grace makes its home between robin's egg folds of your long
star-sprinkled gown? What do you want us to glean from your holy,

halfway-to-orgasmic beam of smile; what does it mean to be wholly
His, wrap his thick ring with pink yarn to hang on your chain, a durinal sense
of His eternal gleaming? Nights in your cell, upon your stony pallet, longing
exactly--such exquisite longing! Women down here stuck in vague, smoky
fits of desire should pray for a love charm like yours, for a groom whose skin
is skin of Earth, flesh of sky, pelt of mountain, derma of the oceans, not pale

nor untouchable, circle of light in your open throat, wafer of cure for mortal pallor,
all of forever at once, His born-ancient body melting on your tongue. Swallow and holy
is holy is wholly His own. Under your habit, the prickly goat hairs sewn next to your skin,
nettle wreaths wound on your thinning wrists, the better to punish senses
into flame. Dear Diary, this morning again He came to my cell, a smoky
smell of charred forget-me-nots. And spoke without words, that I should not be long

within these walls. My building has many units, spake the Lord. The lease is lifelong,
but each of you girls gets a mat of straw and continental breakfast, a brush and pail,
a boombox stuck on the soft rock station, white candle, a box of matches but no smoking.
A box of unsalted crackers and a comb. A blanket the moths have chewed soft with tiny holes.
But close to the Pick 'n Save and on the busline. I go to prepare a place for you, sensational
skyline view. What girl would not burn her plans, watch the drift of her worldly skin

float over the backyard barbeque, shed for wings? To be His steady girl, a holy longing.
A smoky smell of charred forget-me-nots. A homecoming crown, a skein of pink
angora. His Class of Infinity ring. Every other boy pale and spotty, much too sensible.

 

Once as Teresa Read, He Flew Onto Her Book

And after he'd been in the room,
the sisters smelled brimstone.

Not even his shadow will claim him,
but I've heard him bark.

He tempts me to laugh when I am deep in prayer.
He shows himself to me in stale, unoriginal ways.

But when I saw hell, the walls
were stuffed with wretches.

 

Bernadette Soubirous

1. They sent me out with sheep...

They sent me out with sheep, no use for language.
Then out for kindlewood, cold in the stream when I heard the wind's language,

saw roses bloom between the woman's toes and drank
her blue promise--happy in your next life--the lady spoke my language.

The inquisitor ruled that God speaks proper French.
But how do I speak if God does not know my language?

My rosary's gone down to rust, but my body is whole, and fully colored.
I saw, and I heard what I heard. She was who she was, without language.

 

2. This morning the wind has a woman's wail...

This morning the wind has a woman's wail, sad over the prairie,
first a bright whistle, then hushh, then an owl-hoot, finally its female cry.

Through a criss-cross of cracks in the western window, the wind scuffs
the side of my face, slides cold like a cartoon devil inside my collar.

Past midnight I read Mary's book,
followed her tracks from Gabriel to Cana.

Most of my own days talk so small. I shouldn't say female,
but human wind--I hear human language, hovering

over that little pine grove, just out there, where the rock bridge ends.
Some claimed that faith was for fools and their slaves,

women and their children. If I had a daughter,
Mary would be her name. Plain Mary.

 

Saint Teresa's Pantoums

1. And when I ascend...

And when I ascend, the Earth opens its faithful hold
and I know what I know: a knowledge brighter than the sun,
light truer than simple daylight.
A soft whiteness. An infused radiance.

And I know what I know: my knowledge brighter than the sun.
Taking it in, the eyes never tire.
A soft whiteness. An infused radiance.
He studded this cross I carry;

taking it in, the eyes never tire.
A jewel for each wound, more precious than diamonds.
He studded this cross I carry.
And I: flaca y ruin, weak    wretched    fearful      little.    Woman.

A jewel for each wound, more precious than diamonds,
light truer than simple daylight.
And I: flaca y ruin, weak    wretched    fearful    little.    Woman.
How crafty is the Lord!

 

2. A seraph whose face was aflame...

A seraph whose face was aflame
plunged the red-hot iron-tipped spear into my heart.
The sword penetrated all the way through to my entrails.
There was no wanting it to end.

Plunge the red-hot iron-tipped spear into my heart.
What subtle skills You practice on Your miserable slave!
There is no wanting it to end.
You hide from me, inflict upon me so delectable a death!

What subtle skills You practice on Your miserable slave!
This pain is so sweet
there is no wanting it to end.
None of life's pleasures can bring such delight.

This pain is so sweet.
The sword penetrated all the way through to my entrails.
None of life's pleasures can bring such delight.
Pray God give a taste to anyone who doubts me.

 

3. Among her recorded afflictions...

Among her recorded afflictions: compulsion for romance stories.
I could not wait for the next tale to be in my hands.
No name could be given, no single disease explain.
Fever and chest pain, soreness in tooth and jaw.

I could not wait for the next tale to be in my hands.
Nausea, backache, head full of noise. Feverish and wasted.
And chest pain, and throbbing in tooth and jaw.
And the terrible pain in my heart. My tongue was bitten to pieces.

Nausea, backache, head full of noise. Feverish and wasted.
"For fear that the nausea would keep her from receiving Communion,"
And the terrible pain in my heart. My tongue was bitten to pieces.
"she induced vomiting regularly, with the help of an olive twig..."

"For fear that the nausea would keep her from receiving Communion,"
No name could be given, no single disease explain.
"she induced vomiting with the help of an olive twig."
Sharp teeth were gripping my heart. I was nothing but bones.

 

4. The colour of the body is the colour of dates...

The colour of the body is the colour of dates
and a wonderful odor comes forth from her uncorrupt flesh.
Father Gracian removed the hand and severed the pinky:
I carry the little finger about on my person,

and a wonderful odor comes forth from her uncorrupt flesh.
Gracian bought the hand from Turkish captors.
Gracian removed the hand and severed the pinky.
The mouth is tightly shut and cannot be opened.

Gracian bought the hand from Turkish captors.
The flesh is the flesh of a corpulent person, especially around the shoulders.
The mouth is tightly shut and cannot be opened.
The shoulder exudes a moisture exhaling the body's scent...

The flesh is the flesh of a corpulent person, especially around the shoulders.
And even the nose is undamaged.
The shoulder exudes a moisture exhaling the body's scent.
The moles on her face retain their little hairs.