by Franchesca Alamo //

This piece was originally published in Issue 1: Secret Edition (Spring 2022). To see past print publications, click here.

The Sunday after it happened,
I walked seven blocks south
Where evening Mass was underway

And though I sat in the very back,
Something I never do,
I did not once remove my gaze
From the altar’s written icon

From Mary’s hands, soaked in Blood
Pouring from a diamond Wound
The Corpse, and the Cross
The Virgin shattered there

Who would not run away from that? I thought,
Who would not choose a bloodless love?

I returned to my apartment
Without my singing or my dreaming

And once there,
In the company of millions
I alone wept upon my feet.