PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Holy Mary, mother of God,
you don't look like
your pictures.
I've seen your posters and portraits
on parish walls and candles
in the back of the grocery store,  

where you looked like us
Protestant girls, us
pale pink Protestant girls
middle to upper class,
our perfect light curls  
and folded hands,
our dresses white
to the last amen.  

Holy Mary, mother of God,
I think there was dirt
on your nails,
and I think you weren't so
pale and sleepy.
I think
there was mud on your hem,
in your sandals,  

I think your curls
weren't auburn (but your skin was),
and I think you weren't
fragile, but you were
breakable.  

Holy Mary, mother of God,
I'll bet the baby
was heavy.
I'll bet his clothes had
loose threads, ripped
where he tripped on a stone and fell

face-first to the floor.
I'll bet you were scared
and confused, and I'll bet
he tracked mud on your hips
when you held him
and he sobbed
into your neck.  

Holy Mary, mother of God,
I think you were
beautiful,
in that same way mothers are
when they pray jumbled prayers
for their children  

after tripping on toys all day
and burning dinner
again. I think they should draw you
with tangled hair
and sweat on your forehead --  
holy, because you've made it
to the end of one more day.