Bernadette in Transit
New city. New experience. Streetcar!
First glance: mistook her for Mary.
Who could tell? One good
eye,
chipped, just a bit of
iris.
Weren’t Mary’s eyes always blue on the cover of the missalette?
Bernadette’s too, apparently.
Nearby: St. Peter on his rock.
Nearby: Christ, reclining, scary-lifesize.
Nearby: His Sacred Heart, Sacre-Couer protruding
from a banner, three nice drops of his embroidered blood. . .
—Bush Antiques, New Orleans.
(Meanwhile, on the edge of town. . . )
(Meanwhile, long ago. . . )
[Until I decide what I want,]
[I’ll
fill this space]
[with waiting.]
—But
first, not thinking of her.
Or
saying, don’t think of her.
Or,
simply, she’s too much.
Working
the equation.
(My mother, by bus, came to the edge of this town.)
(To a space apart.)
[A box of waiting.]
—But
how might I use her? Practical now.
Or,
more ominously, how am I like her?
Or,
just, what is her provenance?
What’s
my good reason?
Meanwhile,
good bed but bad pillows.
Sightseeing. Refolding the map. . .
I
complain a little and enjoy myself.
(At the edge of town she did things as cheaply as possible.)
[Meanwhile, from her left arm]
[a
wire protruding where her hand]
[was
attached, once.]
“The
party you’re calling is not available.
Please
leave a message after the tone: ”
—my
Fairmont Hotel voice mail
~
Luxury,
I could get used to.
(Best Western. Two story, outside corridor. Coffee shop, preferably.)
(Maybe she arrived late and kept it together)
(long enough to catch a cab.)
[Bernadette
= $95, s&h = $80]
[ka-ching!]
—But
what sound does a saint make? Original
energy,
sure, her throat, God’s ——, no doubt.
But
what sound does a saint in a box make?
Somewhere,
the UPS man listens as I will soon:
her
three red streaks (left breast. spray paint? not
quite,
too careful.), go high-pitched and electrical.
(More and more, she had experiences alone.)
(Of course, I’ve told her nothing)
(about Bernadette.)
[Invtry.
#16242: large plaster statue.]
[Pretty sure she’s in the box now.]
Then
reading about Bernadette:
Nothing,
nothing. Then 18 visions
of
“call me the Immaculate Conception,”
and the necessary testimony.
This was Lourdes.
Then,
the then of it got to be too much,
and
she went back to cholera, so common:
“acute,
often fatal . . . characterized by . . .
blah
blah blah . . . and collapse.”
Later,
sainthood and her incorruptible body:
three
times exhumed: with a sweet odor and
“completely
victorious over the laws of nature.”
~
The
statue, however, is in its own collapse:
paint
chips along the folds of her dress and veil.
What
she’s been through—
(One now is my mother remembering she was fine alone.)
(One now, a little later, is my reaction. . . )
(Meanwhile is just another way of saying, life goes on.)
[So where is she? Has she been]
[jostled much?]
More of the back home. Normal life.
The receipt arrives. Bernadette is imminent.
The garden isn’t ready: snow: some clean,
some darkening . . . as around her eyes,
her photo readily available:
so this
is what a saint looks like. . .
(In this space at least, compassion.)
(What she’s been through.)
[In
this one, what I don’t know.]
O
God, protector of the humble,
grant
that I may —
.
. . and be deserving of —
(But if it were possible)
(could she be among)
(the cured?)
[O
patroness]
[of
the sick—]
Unsure
of how to proceed.
Her
photo, one in particular,
the
white veil:
stays with me.
(Not that my mother is a saint.)
(Only that she has suffered.)
[January 8, 2002: Bernadette]
[arrives!]
The
instructions say: inspect this.
The
crown of her head (no crown
there,
though; just cold) peeks out
from
among the packing peanuts.
~
She
is safe.
(My mother, however, — )
[As
for me,]
[this
is a box]
[of
waiting.]