the old women sit, with veiled faces,
waiting for Father Tom-of-the-Beautiful-Eyes
to begin mass. they sit and pray the rosary,
fingertips pushing against each wooden bead,
feeling the splinters as surely as Christ felt
the spikes driven into his palms.

they pray for husbands long since dead.
they pray for sons killed in battles
in merciless foreign lands
or here on their own streets,
blood that the rain won't wash away.

they pray for daughters gone away
to violent beds for a handful of scarlet dollars.
for brass trinkets. scribbled promises vanishing in firelight.
or the hunger for someone's certified, pre-owned heart.

they pray for strangers trembling in rooms with broken
windows and battered doors, immersed in dope and booze,
and a unique misery tailored especially for them.

and before mass begins, not wanting to omit anyone,
not even those who have steadfastly shunned
the proposition of faith-hope-and-charity,
they pray for me.