The white host hovers almost weightlessly:
The Blessed Sacrament, Our Lord, exposed!
I sit and, waiting, wonder all alone:
When will I see behind this mystery?
No smile appears. No glowing eyes I see.
My mind and heart can't spy what I suppose
Must have the warmth and weight of blood and bone,
The grip of clutching hands nailed to a tree.
Then you appear beside me, in your place.
Out comes your shiny string of onyx beads.
They click. A whispered prayer slips past your teeth.
I wait. I pray. I glance: On your plain face
There is a bursting joy that all but bleeds
And in your tousled hair a thorny wreath.