It was you entirely.
You who taught
the singular mansion
of love, to me: your child,
your boy who nervously
sat still in a sea of convention.
Your Basilica beads were not
for Mary’s crushed child alone.
There was a foetus in that womb,
as you glanced at the Immaculate.
His breathless marble pin-ribs lanced
our muting love in teary-rued cheeks
for what should’ve been high horns.
O mother of earthly care,
how will I heal the doctor
that heals with a heart?
How will I assure the poor
and the rich alike for all
your general and licensed
good?
