But who would pray to you,
supply your canonization?
First, all is muted, a green,
speckled wash, and a balding man
has just heard the worst news of his life,
and your name comes to him as gently
as a silver blanket placed on
the face of a planetless child, the cry
for help not half doubting.
Second, a black hole opens itself
to the uninitiated, stars and glass
still in sameness, the woman
finds herself trapped, and your name
is patterned in the dripping waves,
the illusory scrabble of life, the clicking
of tree branches against universal rock;
you drag each other behind, cold.
Third, everything has decayed—
art that now wears black and a
reaching forward; there seems to be
a fire in both the distance and future,
some collective ripped from prestige.
They chant your name, call upon you
for miracles, the divine ignored for
wailing passion, the solitary life,
the panting immortality of the sky.
© 2021 Terese Mason Pierre