with her voice as bells which chime through the fall
her towering cross dangles above her breasts
and her ares are the booths where sinners confess
her fingers are the drips of holy water drops
and her rings are her candles, her oils, and props
her hum is a hymnal with which her babies sing
and her palms are the baskets for all the gifts we bring
her skin is the bread—tough, chewy, and blessed
her tears are the wine—so smooth to digest
her daughters are parishioners, so lost and so blind
her husband is a bishop—behind the alter he hides
my mother is a cathedral, pretty and tall
her son is her little priest, so ugly and small
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