At the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, Washington, D.C.

An angry Christ glowers from the apse,
his robe a perfect match for flames
that burn about his golden head.
But this is his mother’s house,
and she is everywhere, in chapels
all along the sides, and in the understory,
the crypt beneath the chancel,
her face in each locale a match
for every nation represented: African mother,
Aztec girl, Vietnamese woman dressed
in the áo dài, teaching her persecuted children
huddled in the jungles of Quảng Trị
to survive on medicinal plants.
Outside, shiny new shops on Michigan and Monroe,
their shadier forebears mere phantasms now,
soak in torrential rain. Our ark is not of this world,
even with its cafeteria, gift shop, public restrooms.
The basilica is Mary’s arms around us, the crypt church
her womb, every candle a wavering voice.
She brings us to our knees.
After Mass, a gray-haired Filipina kneels
before Our Lady of Antipolo, eyes closed,
her umbrella on the marble floor, her body
tiny in this giant space, a dust mote
in the cosmos, an embryo.
She is the quickening, the leap of faith;
she the tabernacle, mother of the world.

This article appears in February 2026.