second sunday

There’s a living shadow, a ghost

in the sacristy:

she clings to slices of sunlight

 

that slip through the doors.

She trims the wicks,

she dusts the organ pipes.

 

Alighting to the secret attic, she knows

she’ll soon be shattered among the brassy chords, the minor triads

of a Lenten mourning

 

she curls in onto her nothing,

holding it dear

in the musty darkness of the sacristy…

 

<hear us, holy jesu;

hear us,

holy jesu.>

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