National Poetry Month, Day 11
The Communion of Saints
Every Sunday I declare that I believe in it.
Those women torn apart in the Coliseum,
Brigid, whose father was a Druid,
Lioba, almost buried in the same tomb as her cousin Boniface
Therese, the youngest, with her shower of roses.
But also Margaret Slavin Higgins, hugging me in the kitchen,
Fannie Denlinger Kauffman, who died when my mother, her daughter, was seven.
Holy cards don’t do them justice.
On Sundays, I feel their cloudy presence
Which surrounds me like the scent of Spring hyacinths
In the air of the garden,
Thicker, sweeter than incense.