poem/Constantine's Sword

Constantine's Sword

 

I am reading Constantine's Sword.

James Carroll strikes at the heart.

My Catholic heart.

I love her still.

I love her yet.

I love her wounded.

Grievous love denied by fury.

I am furious with her.

For the promise of a love,

answered by a raised and open hand

that leaves its mark upon the cheek.

 

I love her memory.

Childhood days filled with the hope

of touching God.

Innocent nights lit by mystical

candlelight.

Tiny hand marked the forehead

in an ancient gesture of sorrow.

Scraped knee touched the floor

in reverent genuflection.

 

Separated by betrayals

and wrongs long since committed,

the ties that bind remain.

Her hold on me is as a home,

the taste of oatmeal on the tongue,

the first bite that scalds and scars.

The smell of Grandmother's dress,

lily of the valley and peppermint.

A touch of fear

at her indomitable strength.

 

This Church is Mother.

A mother with whom I cannot live.

A mother whose song by day

soothed the pain of scraped knee and battered soul.

By night, the caustic voice of

hatred heard, of love denied.

In silence accepted, though undeserved.

O! What beauty she brought!

Ancient myth of a god dying and rising,

Poeticritual of water and wine;

Sacrificial altar of human and divine communion.

Childhood innocence, the burnt offering.