St. Anne's Catholic Church remains among
The rubble along a stretch of Charlotte Pike.
The McDonald's across the street claims its
Share of post-Mass gluttons beginning again.

I pray under these vaulted ceilings
With aching knees and knuckles clasped white,
Thinking the pain might get me to heaven;
Thinking God might notice me.

My hands relax. 
I watch the congregation file out.
Some make for the Golden Arches.
A statue of Mary weeps after them.

I notice a painter next door with a
White t-shirt emblazoned with an
American flag underscored
"In God We Trust,"
It's distorted by his bulging paunch.

The pawn shop he's painting would open soon;
Its competitor across the street defiled.
Pale green paint chips from the parched
Walls of the neighboring school.

I eye Mary's statue, meeting her pale stare as
Her open palms beckon me even as they
imprison others as if to hold on to their
Ephemeral piety: She can't live without it.

Her menacing glare turns my food to
Ash not even fourty four ounces of pure bliss
Can wash away. I'd rather starve than remain
Longer under her tearful gaze.

Still I sat transfixed; Her eyes,
Pierce my heart.
Revealing herself:
A weapon.

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Author guidance for This story

I wrote this about 4 years ago while feeling particularly disgusted with the pomp and hypocrisy in organized religion. I've never been against it, and I don't fault it. I blame people who manipulate and abuse it.

The title is deliberately risque. The poetry class I wrote it for was 90% extreme feminist. They got a laugh out of it.

updated Jan 16 '10 by tprince