Poetry in Search of the Way

My lucky number broke down.
E Pluribus Unum, padre,
my soul is poor.
Dominus omen
dominates all men
the augury
of an innocent Sunday morning.
The words we spoke
had blood in them
and the cup
we had to stand around it
around the cup and altar
while the bread turned to body
or mush
we stood
hands crossed over small hearts
beating under gilted vestments
How much longer?
Lord, have mercy?
We’re saying that again?
“The doors, the doors of wisdom . . .”
Yes, yes, wisdom
“Let us attend . . .”
Yes attend.  Pay
attention everyone
they’re passing the plate
the priest says some things in whispers
sometimes only God can hear
He’s having mercy
because we’re making the sign
some are swatting flies
holiness crawls
on the yellowing walls
in the golden robes
in the painted icons
stained glass facing east
it is rising
the sun
the song I hear
that lady singing
her blonde voice
echoes through the dome.