Led by two nuns with brown steady hands,
the faith of novitiates, she stepped
into the cold water.
An old, frail woman at 33, the red mask
of Lupus stained her face. Crutchless,
she was willing to believe in holy water,
miracles great and small. But she surprised
herself, astonished God. Who wouldn’t
ask for firm tissue, the connected threads
of marriage, children, years and more
years, instead of a lonely porch, peacocks
In the dirt yard her only companions.
She prayed instead for images, means
to make the dark Christ rise again,
the moment of sudden electric grace.
Her father gave her love but slow death
in the blood they shared.
God the father gave her parables–
the deaf saw, the blind heard,
redemption a wooden leg stolen
in a barn, salvation at the point
of a loaded gun. Faith was hers
in that famous grotto, her white robe
flowing, water into words.