It’s a sacred thing
A filling of cupped hands
The hollow warmth of her womb
His unexpected kiss
Like rows of cathedral candles
Waiting to be lit by pennies and prayers
We wait silently, painfully,
Hoping to be ignited by the scarred hands
Of a priest seldom seen—
Always watching, Always silent—
For one word from him would set this
Skeletal cathedral ablaze with light:
An inferno of blood and sacrificial flame,
Which no coined prayer can quench.
That is why you are here.
You heard it once, but the light has died.
You wait for resurrected flame:
Your prayers rise like smoke.