The Practical Side of Lourdes
-nb
Backs sway side to side with each pitiful step.
The broken pavement is wet from the recent rain.
I bend down on one knee
uhhg.
“Keep straight, keep moving you fool!” the man behind me moans.
I rise and begin again, and the procession
ripples
“Aïe!!” the women in front of me cries in agony.
“Oh, excuse me, forgive me for stepping on your foot, I meant no harm", I beg
Will the old lady forgive me I wonder?
...Hail Mary full of grace, forgive me father for stepping on this old lady’s foot...
“Walk faster boy, your falling behind- cant you see I’m dying?”
I turn to see the man behind me now, he's wearing a scowl and limping on one foot.
Tut tum… tut tum
...Hail Mary full of grace, forgive me father for being slow...
The line extends to nothing under the Pyrenees.
The shape of its coil resembles the river beside us, the holy river- the river that can’t
wait
A small girl sells Virgin Mary glass candles with dry hands and a slanted grin.
“Only deux francs! Look isn’t she beautiful, deux francs seulement!
“Keep moving!”, a yell rings out from behind.
“Oh… I’m sorry little girl but I can’t buy her”.
...Three Hail Mary’s- and save this little girl….
A women yells from the crowd, “Bougies ici!” and the little girl falls away.
The heat bears down
and the smell of putrefied bread and breath stale the air.
...Heal to toe, heal to toe, only a little further to the grotto...
ripple
There’s rot all around, decomposed and sweet smelling
Moans become louder as the faithful reach the rails.
The weaken weeps sing gainfully now
“un cher dieu j'ai besoin d'un miracle”
One by one they enter into the darkness.
Moisture falls from the cool damp stone walls
drip
A tired hand slides across each rough protrusion
Searching eyes strain for justification
Minds burn for proof
I bend on both knees before thousands in front of a stone alter
...Hail Mary full of grace, help me see in such darkness…
And then- a faint glow grows from nothing
She is there! Holding her candles for all to see! I can see her!
“Son un MIRACLE!
Can’t you see… can’t you see…can’t you see “ they all cheer!
The resonate echo sounds from ear to ear
Fingers rigidly intertwine
eyes pinch tight
rosemary spins
the praises sing and the tears
drip
a lowly rat stills his scurry and looks on for a moment- fidgets, and sniffs the air.
Cleaned and Cleared
by nb
Eyes are like clouded orbs within blue moons
She has half a mouth with a black open slit
Her face is black and white in amazing depth of field
From eyebrow to temple to the bellowing waves of hair beyond
A torn fragment.
The hair bends back at the follicles
Head lays flat on the ground.
Her earlobe compressed by the weight
A sweaty cheek wet with perspiration
Pores are blocked by wood
The floor panels fan out from view like lost highways
Drips of saliva spills silently onto the floor like an alluvial plain
Panels become condensed with each slow breath
The back and front of her teeth are dry and slimy
Tongue drapes over molar, bicuspid, cuspid
She focuses on feeling the silence around her, seeing the color of the air, and the taste of her mind.
There is only presence.
Embodied and observed.
Mustard
By nb
Your topic swells
So I’ll listen.
The conversation is familiar, I’ve heard it before, the only difference is the Girl.
“Is anyone listening?” You know they are.
You scout a spot on the floor and begin to dredge.
“There was a Girl, and then there wasn’t”.
Wasn’t the poet before him a disciple of Her philosophy as well?
I don’t get it, but isn’t that kind of love enough to shoot the moon with?
Where’s the simple love?
But the tears! The abandon! The horror!
And what audacity! That fire in Her spine, which blazed for him, has now but gone limp?
“You don’t say?”
Yes, the poetry says it all.
Still, it seethes with such good grief.
Your topic is a dismount.
Tangled in a spin, you hope you’ll land on both feet when this is all over, unscathed and settled.
But your spinning in the air so fast, like super-symmetry to a point particle;
You’ve already begun to fade into nothing.
But hey, I know your out there somewhere; I don’t have to see you.
And the probabilities suggest you might show up here or there, but you never know.
What? Don’t ask me, I really don’t know who his sponsor is or where he learned all those swell moves?
I just hope he learns to stick the landing.
Damn this heat, and his broken heart.
This topic has clearly gone somewhere else.
But here I am, beset by his grief like gifts.
He may not be for me, but what the hell, I’ll take the grief anyway.
Yep, I’ll take it and run like a Bonnie on the lam, clutched tightly between fingers and sweaty palm.
Just in case he wants its back.
But he won’t notice it. He’s somewhere else
with stockpiles of lovely loose-lipped love to give away.
So ‘like Billy Bray I guess I’ll go my way’ singing ‘Glory’ and ‘Amen’ with these darn feet.
But those righteous feet are made for stomping, and I’d rather walk.
I might even like to put these old boys up for awhile.
Your know your topic is really his by proxy.
The only thing missing is the stain on my heart from that smudge of mustard on the corner of your lip.
