I saw an image of the Virgin Mary on my lover's hand
After her knuckles, smooth thumbnail, and doctoral class ring
Found epiphanies inside of me. Like a zealot
I didn't want her to pull the Holy hand out. So,
We rode that revelation, mounted every sermon,
Prayed hard to the heavens within.
The Vatican didn't care: they were only interested
In tortilla likenesses of the Holy Mother this year.
They didn't care that my punk, blue-haired lover
Curled her hand even deeper.
Even though I told the Pope this:
The monotheism of her fist could convert an atheist.
Even though I screamed, My God this
My God this is what religion is.
I traced the image of the Holy woman on my lover's palm
Every smile line, every wrinkle
Like the spiritual topography in the back of a motel Bible.
And we rested for the night, we took refuge for the night
Curled together like fish, the tide line on her hand
Not quite to the wrist, somewhere around the
Holy Mother's chin, where two rivers intersect,
And innocence began. I remember back then,
When perfection reigned,
If only for a second of coming, if only
For a second coming, if only for a single
Subliminal frame staring spellbound
Into an immaculate and loving face.