A Candidate's Prayer
Faithful eyes steer thoughts toward the Crucifix—
toward Jesus, glorified on the Altar. I, among them,
have gone to Him, remain elated, lose track of time; I
cannot locate the priest, as he moves about. Seeing
Mary perched on the highest beam in the Sanctuary
defies logic, but there She is! up among whirring
ceiling fans. Scent of roses overpowers lingering
incense. Angels are the easy ones to spot as they
wing their way through Holy Air, tickling my arm
like a feathery moth, then pressing their weight
into my shoulder. I know to which choir each angel
belongs. “So just who is a mystic?” I wonder.
“One who goes to heaven, seeing a wild flower?”
The Church, who has its famous mystics (now
Saints in heaven, praising God with the angels),
must question the rest of us, try us for authenticity.
Saint Catherine remained ecstatic for hours, grace-
glazed eyes fixed upon her thorn-crowned Savior.
Jesus, that same Holy Trigger, becomes, for me,
impetus for lucid rather than sensual insight.