Idol
Maybe she's bored of being the Blessed Virgin,
being placed on pedestals and pulpits, adorned
on alters and chapel ceilings. She's had enough
candles lit at her feet to burn Heaven down
forever. Maybe, she'd prefer to drape her blue
self over a bar stool, ponder life without
the drapery and hardware. She must be tired
of being hailed like a cab, evoked in the night,
and preyed upon by sinners. What she needs is
detox for the divine—to rehab old habits.
I imagine her lifting the veil and falling
like a rain cloud onto a street. She follows
footprints into a watering hole, surrenders
the life preserver and orders a Bloody
Mary. She tries to forget the eternal tides
that moon over her each night. She's fed up with figs
and fish, wants to suck the blue marrow from a rib-
eye steak, dip wings in hot sauce and let devilled
eggs dissolve in her mouth. She doesn't want a man
who makes things from scraps of wood, nor one who totes
nets and tackle. She wants to tremble like wild
wisteria, throw olives into a parched wind
and no longer appear as the nun getting none.
Maybe, Mary just wants to be idol no more.
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