I'm just here to do the flowers
It has been suggested.
I mean, there’s this shortage of priests.
(Between you and me, I think
it’s the celibacy thing.)
An open mike at Sunday Mass.
But I’m not so sure it’s a good idea.
I mean, what if ...
a woman gets up to speak?
What if a woman gets up to speak
and she's not wearing a bra?
There’d have to be all sorts of rules.
No woman who’s nursing a baby -- what if
milk leaked through her blouse
in front of the congregation?
And no woman with PMS. Think of the sermon
we’d get. She’d wake up the dead.
No woman going through the change.
No woman who wants the church to change.
What if an attractive woman takes the mike?
And the young fellows start watching
the way her chest moves when she talks?
What if the priest starts watching her?
(Between you and me, it’s that
whole celibacy thing.)
How would we regulate what they say?
I’ve heard that some women have the nerve
to stand up in front of a microphone
and use the word breast.
My mother only used that word
when she was serving
chicken. And most of the time
we just called it white meat.
I’ve been up on this altar before. Every week.
I go in early Saturday to do the flowers.
I snip off dead buds, put in fresh water.
We’ve had a woman here all along. The blessed mother.
If statues could talk -- we could give the mike to her.
This woman once held the Son of God
in her arms, breastfed him, changed his diaper.
If I were a sculptor, I wouldn’t make her
so young, so perfect. I would chisel in some wrinkles.
And stretch marks. A grey hair or two.
I wouldn’t hide the glory.
It’s not for me to say, of course.
I have no voice
in this church.
Only a body.
------------------------------------------
Published in Owen Wister Review
It has been suggested.
I mean, there’s this shortage of priests.
(Between you and me, I think
it’s the celibacy thing.)
An open mike at Sunday Mass.
But I’m not so sure it’s a good idea.
I mean, what if ...
a woman gets up to speak?
What if a woman gets up to speak
and she's not wearing a bra?
There’d have to be all sorts of rules.
No woman who’s nursing a baby -- what if
milk leaked through her blouse
in front of the congregation?
And no woman with PMS. Think of the sermon
we’d get. She’d wake up the dead.
No woman going through the change.
No woman who wants the church to change.
What if an attractive woman takes the mike?
And the young fellows start watching
the way her chest moves when she talks?
What if the priest starts watching her?
(Between you and me, it’s that
whole celibacy thing.)
How would we regulate what they say?
I’ve heard that some women have the nerve
to stand up in front of a microphone
and use the word breast.
My mother only used that word
when she was serving
chicken. And most of the time
we just called it white meat.
I’ve been up on this altar before. Every week.
I go in early Saturday to do the flowers.
I snip off dead buds, put in fresh water.
We’ve had a woman here all along. The blessed mother.
If statues could talk -- we could give the mike to her.
This woman once held the Son of God
in her arms, breastfed him, changed his diaper.
If I were a sculptor, I wouldn’t make her
so young, so perfect. I would chisel in some wrinkles.
And stretch marks. A grey hair or two.
I wouldn’t hide the glory.
It’s not for me to say, of course.
I have no voice
in this church.
Only a body.
------------------------------------------
Published in Owen Wister Review