Our Lady of Thoughts and Prayers
       

I'm the weary saint of those who sorrow least,
wind in white flags whistling from a better place,
puddle-skinned, one of the drowned, part beast.
I'm your hothouse hope, your gasps, your crawl space
after the levees break and while the shooter aims.

My cult distributes cardboard meals.
My cult links arms, lights votives in the street,
they sob ten-deep in school yard vigils
clutching at love and light, their idols.
I'm the banshee conjured by the battered world.

I'm the banshee conjured by the battered world
clutching at love and light, their idols
while they sob ten-deep in school yard vigils.
My cult links arms, lights votives in the street,
My cult distributes cardboard meals.

After the levees break and while the shooter aims,
I'm your hothouse hope, your gasps, your crawl space.
I'm puddle-skinned, one of the drowned, part beast.
I'm wind in white flags whistling from a better place,
the weary saint of those who who sorrow least.

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Copyright © 2020 Alison Pelegrin All rights reserved
from Bennington Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission