THE BLUE MEDAL OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN MARY
We have to laugh in-between these lines &
pause to stretch our bodies to occupy space.
It’ll weave itself into forms of matter & grief.
I’m marked for destruction & the man of
this planet shouldn’t allow living ghost to roam
on his planet holding the missals, the rosary
& the blue medal of the blessed Virgin Mary.
God handed over my funeral clothes to me &
My sister could not find me in my mother’s
Prayer on the altar last Sunday service;
& Standing in front of the Statue of Mary
reminded me of how I cut the sky to bleed
because I wanted the rainbow to shed its colours,
you won’t see me in this poem;
You’ll only see me in hell holding fire for
Satan as a mark of death & suffering.
I was never taught how to envy my skin,
I was only taught how to hide under it; upon
the silence in my bedroom, grief is a friend.
I’m an unforgivable sin in the heart of men,
A moth like me will always dance to flame.
Adrien Vachette’s soul had no blood when
he killed a soul like mine in the hands of a
father who baptised himself in an inexorable
Fanatic brand of Catholicism, he sold us all.
At 10, my body has completed a whole elegy
to bury men of like-minds who religion bent.
I’m a body on fire, death forgets my name each time I pass the growing night
holding the blue medal of blessed Virgin Mary.
Poem © John Chizoba Vincent
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay (modified)