Mary by Mariah Crawford

I thought the church lived in the buildings
the ones with vaulted, ornate rooms
filled with women in their best dress
and men in their starched suits
judging the faded blue of my denim

I thought the church lived in the book
the one I bought secondhand
lugged around every Wednesday and Sunday
the book I studied for six weeks
before I was allowed to swim in its waters

I thought the church lived in the shuffled papers
the ones the preacher held in His hands
As he stood behind the mahogany pulpit
reading out fiery warnings to all of us
but mostly to me

I thought the church lived in the tiny crackers
the ones coupled with thimbles of grape juice
small morsels of the Body and it’s Blood
that melted on my tongue instantly
but did nothing to curb my hunger

I thought I’d find the church in the righteous relics
the ones with wooden crosses and organ led hymns
But the crosses gave me splinters
No matter how gently I held them
And the music fell deaf on my ears

I thought I’d find the church in the blessed virgin 
the one who carried salvation in her body
But she never answered when I called her Mother
And though her tears poured over the altar
There was never enough for the desert of my skin 

Mary knew the church lived in the cathedrals
the ones found deep in the woods
Wandering down an overgrown path
Confined only by the pale blue expanse
And the echoes of the cicada choir

Mary knew the church lived in the pen
the one she slipped into her notebook
Whose ink flowed a river of prayers
And bore witness to the confessions
Whispered by rustling leaves

Mary knew the church lived in the days of summer
The ones with geese flying overhead
Their wings flapping wildly
like the sound of scripture pages turning
Calling out psalms to all of us

Mary knew the church lived in the communion 
The one between her hand and a grasshopper
In the consecration of sugar from her palm
an offering of selfless tidings
From one being of wonder to another  

I know now the church lives in the bird song
the one that delicately carries The Word
and in the grove of rain soaked elms
Dripping holy water from their leaves
I find her there, under the canopy
Drinking it all in.