I don't pray to virgins

The pews in the front row have been empty

in this temple, coming too close to divine

means leaving the black paths in stained glass.

Do you want to skate on the blue and pink and red ice

of Virgin Mary’s face? She is in the peripheral

wincing at your veneration, wishing to melt these colors

from her one-dimensional silhouette. The glass

is mom and grandma and daughter

who thinned and froze herself translucent 

to reflect colorful light onto flat prayers. 

Unfold our prayers to find every goddamn hope

paralyzed into silent words.

Who taught us, Grandma, to pray for suffering?