The Communion of Saints

 

 

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.