Saint Ignatius, Agatha, Sebastian, Rose,
would it ever be helpful for a saint to appear?
I hear the sing-songy priest guide the congregation,
a sea of crowns of heads and closed eyes
and he sings out to saint Barnaby, Peter,
John, Pius, he tells us to pray to Patrick, to Christopher
for guarded travels.
My eyes are closed, and I see Our Lady of Guadalupe,
saintly stomper of snakes, showing
her glowing self to a petrified farmer,
who then led his people to Christ in the tiny
forgotten land of Guadalajara, Mexico…
I open my eyes and see this isn’t Guadalajara, there’s just
the priest who’s singing to Luther and James,
and no saint will start as a tiny glimmering orb in the eyes
of another innocent passer-by who isn’t asking for
anything in particular from a saint, if anything at all,
no force is going to pull at us, to tell us to pray harder,
but I watch the collection of faintly burning souls
fill up with hot air and flitter up, past broken glass windows
filled with promising color, into the stone hands of Saint Jude.