i.
I was seven years old
when Father Catholic spoke
of Mary.
"God chose her," he said,
"because she was sinless,
as no other woman
would ever be."
And he looked at me.
"Not even you."
I was seven years old
when I realized God
had always known
that I would fight with my sister
and tell fibs to my mother.
"That's no reason to stop trying,"
Father Catholic insisted.
"We should all try to be
like Mary."
And I decided to be pure
like Mary
no matter what.
[Perfectionism is the curse
of those destined to fail.]

ii.
I was twenty years old
when I took my place beside him
on a fallen tree
where a garden snake slept
in sheltered branches.
He, with his long hair,
beard, and
peaceful smile.
His hands upturned on his knees
(like mine)
He closed his eyes and
tilted his head to the sun.
And you,
standing between us,
balancing on the dead wood.
Your hands poised
just above our crowns.
You opened your eyes and
tilted your head to meet my gaze.
You smiled.

For that moment,
you were a God. 
And I,
your purest Virgin. 

09/25/2002

Posted on 09/15/2002
Copyright © 2024 Meredith C Hartwell