Montserrat

My La Moreneta,
you were not rendered
by the hand of St. Luke,
nor carried to safety
in the arms of St. Peter,
nor found by shepherds 
in Santa Cova, oh, Holy Grotto.
St. Ignatius prayed at your feet,
never knowing
it may have been Isis and Horus 
he worshipped, instead.
And no miracle other than smoke on varnish
darkened your skin, my Black Madonna.

 

Still, I kissed your hand,
as have millions before, as will millions again,
yet failed to receive your blessing,
receive your miracle.
Sanctuary bells and Gregorian chants
from sweet Benedictine angels
rang through your Basillica,
filling your canyon,
enveloping your Catalonian mountains,
even the Finger of God,
yet all failed to bridge the chasm
between my disbelief
and your salvation,
my unworthiness and your grace.

 

Why did I believe I would find you
entombed in a wooden idol,
enshrined behind panes of glass,
when all along you were waiting down the hill: 
a shepherd's wife, worn and browned
from long work, longer sun.
From you I bought fresh cheese,
crusty bread, cool water.
You gave me rest on a low wall
along the foot path leading to the Monastery,
and while fanning me with your scarf,
you spoke in a language
I did not need to understand,
for in your eyes I knew
you were my La Moreneta.

Reviews

[Heather]

I read this on the other site, but for some reason and on this day, it strikes me so profoundly. This is brilliance, Kelly.