In the very back of our little church,
the visiting nun scrolled her iPhone 7
to recheck some notes, if left in the lurch
(maybe to use a life-line to heaven).
The point, after mass, was assigned to us,
a parish most canonized in the land:
we’d have to latch on to the omnibus
rolling, from sources not long ago banned.
The matter? a statue of martyred Saint
Vojtech—yet to be cast, sure to inspire:
the chatter of clergy, beyond complaint,
bets pilgrimage business will catch on fire.
He’s ‘Adalbert’, after all, shining bright,
an upstanding man to have in your fold;
the nun swipes to say our timing is right,
sanctioned by bishops increasingly old.
I had to recall Sienna’s best voice,
buried, at will, beneath altars of prayer,
witnessing Rome and retracting by choice,
knowing it wasn’t much good going there.
She spidered her journey of ‘time will tell’;
Vojtech, I’m sure, would attest to this stance,
acting beyond papists’ heaven or hell,
given a glimmer of staid happenstance.
We’re tethered en
masse to be there again:
Sundays, when golf courses call for a round
and nuns are submerged beyond now and then,
somehow the swing should remain alter-bound,
Catherine beneath, Vojtech above in stone.
Drama’s not left to anyone’s scripting,
especially those who ‘go it alone’,
God truly bless the next texts incoming.
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