Missionary Position

She spits at my feet but looks to the sky
as she is blessing me, so full of grace.
Like Seraphim wings, the whites of her eyes
glisten, wide open like Saint Peter’s Gate

at the Endtimes, with no one left to save.
She drove three-fourths of a revolution
to arrive, humming hymns along the way,
but never thought that she would be the one

abandoned by righteousness, left alone
as Mary ails, asphyxiating faith.
Her whispered conscience knows not what it’s done,
now, or at the hour of her death:

Her only sin has ever been her pride,
a trespass greater than the sum of mine.

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