terminal velocity

Vicka has come, the seer,

pale skin, crocheted scarf,

an other worldly calm

unexpectedly in their midst.

 

The cup of her hands pours

a blessing over them; she says

please kneel, listen to Gospoda,

oh, she weeps for peace

in an evil world, fast, pray

on Wednesday, Friday.

This waif, is she 16? –

 

so plain, her voice tremulous--

some forget to videotape,

some seem distressed

the Holy Mother

is less present

than usual and Vicka

will not take questions

this time about heaven

 

or life after life or the end,

which is sooner

than anyone knows:

long flight home,

nothing worthwhile to take

and someone, hopefully,

at the gate to meet them.

 

--Miguel deO

 

Done