But who would pray to you,

supply your canonization?

 

First, all is muted, a green,

speckled wash, and a balding man

has just heard the worst news of his life,

and your name comes to him as gently

as a silver blanket placed on

the face of a planetless child, the cry

for help not half doubting.

 

Second, a black hole opens itself

to the uninitiated, stars and glass

still in sameness, the woman

finds herself trapped, and your name

is patterned in the dripping waves,

the illusory scrabble of life, the clicking

of tree branches against universal rock;

you drag each other behind, cold.

 

Third, everything has decayed—

art that now wears black and a

reaching forward; there seems to be

a fire in both the distance and future,

some collective ripped from prestige.

They chant your name, call upon you

for miracles, the divine ignored for

wailing passion, the solitary life,

the panting immortality of the sky.

© 2021 Terese Mason Pierre