At the Last Supper’s Mass,
I see
a statue veiled in purple,
and I hear
my toddler call it a ghost,
but I hope
that from the other side of the veil,
my mom sees
the same Mass, with a maskless Host.
At the crucifixion’s liturgy,
I see
the Tent of Meeting pierced and purged,
and I hear
the church’s heart’s hollowness bleed into the road,
but I know
it’s the same embracing silence
my mom and I heard
pervade this parking lot on the same day years ago.
And at the vigil of us not-yet knocked-down guards,
I see
a cavern of lit candles, one towering above the rest,
and I hear
the renewal of baptismal covenants,
but I know
they’re the same bracing promises
I heard my mom
renew as she received her final sacraments,
and my tears now
are the same my brother, in persona Christi, shed then,
and my love now
is the same my mom promised to give without end.
