Down on my knees
in that stained glass church,
I contemplate the tiny, twisted body of Christ
in my rosary.
At the moment of death, did He know His anguish
would be reprinted over and over
to hang over beds of sin
and outside churches?oxidized by rain?
My fingers clutch the beads
as I whisper prayers I am not familiar with?
each crimson bead is a tiny bloody angel.
Is this what brings salvation?
Words on my tongue, symbol in my hands?
Redemption does not come on the ribs of a painted Christ,
It does not come in letters strung together?
repeated by those who don't understand.

Down on my knees,
I pray for punishment, I pray for pain?
a vehicle of salvation;
I pray for wounds, blood to cover my sins.
I am scared I'll never see inside the gates of Heaven,
I am scared of eternal torment.
I pray to feel Christ's pain until tears are falling
on my red, red rosary
and behind the veil of tears,
my body is hanging on the Cross.

Melissa Kolmer