I am born from hands frail and flour-drenched.
From empty hands that gave, in fear of Hands Pierced.
Familial covenants broken–
covenants plumed by mantillas pure.

I sought to be like polished gold.
Peter’s keys, vestments,
coins clashing against mahjong tiles,
frames for holy men,
medals to beseech them.
I was slathered in gold and polished.
I resonate now with what is stained–
glass, innocence, Eve.

I trembled in silence and solitude.
Mahogany pews were bartered for a bedside prie-dieu—
singular tapers lit awaiting the return
of a Lamb or a brother.
Clocks ticked backwards,
the six a.m and noon chimes
converted to an annoyance.
A harsh reminder–
what has passed is past.

I rest now within rusted and chipped stock pots and beads
overgrown weeds,
unattended herbs that still venerate
bones incorruptible.
I’ve learned from whose heart now beats in a pickling jar.
A relic stacked atop peppers and olives gathering grime.
My soul moves forward from altars unkissed and doxology unsung,
monophony haunting,
to longing,
to absolution.

Published 8th March, 2026.

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