Julie Lumsden

Christina the Astonishing arrives in Radcliffe on Trent
to prepare the Faithful for the End of Days.

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,
my eyes blinded by visions.
The Paschal Moon began it. The Friday Passion
sent me cackling to the rafters
in front of a congregation
shifty with embarrassment, except for
the anorexic girl who wants to build me a hermitage
on the edge of the playing field.
Father Maloney emails the Vatican regarding
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
live the ordinary stuff of days, who have flown
higher than the sucking mouths of angels,
through a crack in the universe
to plunge my fist into the Sacred Heart?

Copyright © Julie Lumsden, 2009