The Stations

The stations’ ordered gallery,

is divinely assured

with sacred reds and blues

Thorns, robes and down-cast faces

above roman numerals, fix the mood

with shuttered wooden frames

(Might the sight be too much -

too much suffering to see?)

Rosaries twizzle

through unconscious thumbs

and the stations,

history defined by art -

are a perplexity of maths

As if numerical order

could precisely target sin

or touch Mary’s sorrows

Novena’s hardcore,

your mum, your mate’s mums,

looking guilty and afraid

Mother’s passion, instilled

stick-to-itness with god

But it never saved us

from life

and people, and thoughts

that let us come a little too… unstuck

Teachings say

pious persons turn a cheek

assume the role of victim…

and courage flies on tattered wings

How deep digs the child

who believes that god

gives them a big thumbs-up

through it all?

Deeper, I can tell you, than inflicted wounds

It’s no good when mum and dad

believe that god is on your side

- and you’re too little to argue back

I had believed that one day

everyone everywhere would be convinced

and they'd come to church

And year on year, that enormous task

was only overshadowed

by its futility