Christina The Astonishing Arrives in Covert Crescent to Prepare The Faithful for The End of Days

by Julie Lumsden

Oh Lord, where am I?
Where is my narrow cot, my book?
Who is this man following me from room to room?
Yesterday I let him guide me to the Health Centre –
the five wounds of my stigmata sparking fire, eyes
blinded by visions. The Paschal Moon began it.
The Friday Passion sent me cawing to the rafters
in front of a congregation shifty with embarrassment.
Only the anorexic child understands
and suggests building me a hidden hermitage
in trees behind the playing field.
Father Feeney emails the Vatican about my knowledge
of twelfth century Latin, he cocks his head to one side
that way he has, eyes bluer than Mary’s robe,
I’ve tried not to always let my eyes
return to him even in the bits he sits out.
The Mass is not what it was –
during what they call their Sign of Peace,
an elderly woman, attempting to embrace me,
was blown the length of the church
by my reluctant sigh. Dear God, how may I
prepare these people for the shattering?
I’m not so much sickened by the stench of sin
as shocked by the paltriness of their concerns.
How do I deal with them? How may I endure
the ordinary stuff of days, who have flown elsewhere
so strangely, skimming these dormitory roofs,
high, fast, out of bounds?