The young woman, all of nineteen, sat on the short stone wall, by the busy street.
She was lost in thought, or prayer, or a day dream.
The setting sun gave her a beatific light, even through the orange smog, and thick haze.
She was still and holy.
She looked up, down the busy street, past the night.
Her long chestnut hair spilled out of the hood of her sweatshirt.
He said, hood up, long hair free, she looked like Mary,
in the drawings from Sunday School, when they were children.
Her thoughts were prayerful daydreams. She tried to remember
how to fly, like when she was a child, when nothing touched the ground.
He would come soon. Maybe they’d walk and talk. Maybe get Cokes
and talk inside somewhere, in cool AC, before beind tun-off.
And not even Mary had had it easy she realized now.
All the weight of fate, and her Son turning away, and then dying.
Maybe he come back, but it seemed to make no difference anymore.
The placid Mary of Sunday School was a cruel fiction!
In the haze, the distortion of the heat that she felt on her
like a dirty second skin, she saw him coming, as tired as
the sun shining through the orange smog and filthy air.
Tired, but still coming to see her. She sighed, wanting light.
She felt a cool breeze whip her hair, and cool, for a moment
her skin. She strained for hope and a place in this world.
He felt like home, but she felt him pulling away, Lucifer tempting him
to run into the wilderness with him.
And she was strained as Mary, trying to hold onto something
turning away, but not to light, not grace, but to addicting rage.
They would walk and talk, or drink Cokes in the cool inside.
But fate takes us where it wants, not caring the damage done.