The Passion


Monsignor James in pancake and spectacles,
the black red-buttoned dress of a dowager
inspecting Sunday morning hemlines.

On Wednesday night his head
is a shadow puppet tipped on a titillating
string of confessions.

When young men kneel, Monsignor
lets his finger brush their tongues,
his sole communion, saying Corpus Christi,

thinking osculum infame.
Easter scenes of trial and rejection
remind him of an ancient observation,

Childermass, when he could have whipped a youth
to commemorate the murder of innocents.
Above the altar hangs a man, breechcloth

and surrender. Monsignor James adores
the reverent verve of a Good Friday altar boy
climbing with a red sash to cover up the Christ.

He composes a rococo play around 
a bad disciples kiss and a gospel verse
corrupt–I would count all his bones–

while he steadies the ladder for two sons
out of reach.


Margie, Volume 8, 2009