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.
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