On praying at the body of Blessed Carlo Acutis

Oh Blessed boy,

Sweet child of fourteen

A sleeping beauty in

Blue jeans and Nikes, dear,

You might have been a prince

From a land so familiar

As to be made foreign

In the softness of your cheek, your

Infinite closeness.

Even the glass, the stone, harsh

Stone, jagged, fractured earth,

The separation of cold glass

Is gentle in such a Love’s

confinement.

I press my palm against its face, the distance.

What hand laid

So lightly your Youth’s heart

down amid this lavender?

What surgeon’s art installed

Such a death’s tenderness?

What light impress–

Your flesh

Still gravity-bound so as to sign

A victory known only

In painterly raven-cream and

The stilled motion

Of a half zipped sweater?

Not death’s stillness but more,

The stillness of the Chinese jar,

stillness bodied, pressing back

Against my palm, of petal

Lips poised to open, speaking

Rise and walk.

Dear Blessed Carlo, to only

Clasp your hand! To watch

Your holy smile lift

The heaviness of sleep,

The God-given charm of

A boy of fourteen

Restored, not just recovery but

Shining in sweet knowing

That flesh alone cannot endure.

What did those eyes, pressed lids see

Among the pregnant quiet of these hills?

The shock of green, the pulse

Of cobblestone, the murmur

Ever ancient, ever new,

and what now?