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POETRY
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-- Ann Tuxbury Webster Groves, Mo.
The Real Cathedral
Once a young woman of no importance constructed a
cardboard cathedral of no value on the sidewalk outside
the Hippie
Kitchen. Her eyes told me I was welcome to come inside. We spoke in
the language of silence
(this is something that women of different
cultures can learn to do).
I entered the cardboard cathedral on my
knees. The cement floor was cold, unforgiving, sacred. The woman of no
importance opened a cigar box tabernacle. One by one she held
up the jewels hidden inside: broken glass; discarded bottle caps; a
jagged piece of mirror; an
earring, cheap and tarnished. There was no
bread, no wine. She held the earring up,
offered it to me. I
accepted. The movement of her body, the stirring of her blood, the
most profound act of consecration I have ever witnessed.
Holy ...
holy ... holy. She lived this wordlessly, breathed it in and out
quietly, moment by moment. I longed
for her to bestow a blessing on
me the way a lost child longs to be found. But she was curling her
unwashed
body around the cigar box, falling into a deep sleep.
Certainly, I thought, as I crawled out through the slice in the cardboard
-- gift in hand -- this is the first woman priest,
ordained by
obscurity, dreaming inside the only real cathedral in
town.
-- Toni Flynn Valyermo, Calif.
The Veil
We grew up together. I taught him how to dance at
Auntie Miriams wedding, Lift your feet, I said,
Now kick -- higher -- good like a horse prancing -- snap your
fingers, loosen your shoulders, bob you head -- there feel the
rhythm. It was twilight the greying of the day the dawning of
the night. The people in our village partied as we do whenever the
seasons change and the Earth decorates herself in bridal perfumes and
costumes. I felt his nervous, sticky palms, I squeezed his hand --
reassuring him. Becoming cocky -- he pulled me up and back then spun me
round with a rush that lifted the folds of my dress baring my
ankles. I saw him smirking -- So just to prove to him that I wasnt
afraid I lifted my dress more. ... His mouth opened wide. Mother
gave me a look that told me she knew what I was up to. When the music
ended I felt his hands around my waist raising me above the
crowd that clapped for us as we took our bows saluting each
other. The sweat rolling down his cheeks-- I pulled off my veil and
wiped his face. He took my hands, kissing my fingers one by
one prophetic of the gentle man He was becoming.
Thats why
I fought off the soldiers who kept throwing me to the ground as He
carried His cross. Then trying to get close to Him the Universe paused
and let me in and I pulled off my veil wiping His face
again.
-- Janice Sevre-Duszynska Lexington, Ky.
National Catholic Reporter, April 30,
1999
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