Mary's Desecration

Looking for something beautiful
in the woods
behind an old Kentucky monastery,
I find a grey, stone statue
of Mary,

tall,
smooth,
in modern design,
long lines,
full robes
that drape over her shoulders,
over her breasts
then fan out
as if opening to the wind.
Her long neck
holds
her head up;
her eyes behold yours.

My eyes are drawn to
her chest
where crude, rough-hewn,
misshapen hands
B small, disproportionate hands
pasted together in prayer B
protrude from her breastbone,
phallic-like,
squashing her torso,
B not hands
sculpted by the artist
but someone=s sacrilege,
a strident appendage,
an afterthought to hide something,
or to draw the observer’s eye
away from some offending line
to these supplicant fingers.

For added measure,
beside her has been placed
a hand-painted sign:
PRAY PRAY PRAY.

On the ground in front of her
a glass jar holds a one-dollar rosary;

I wonder
what monk passed her
in the woods one day,
thought to himself, I can fix this,
and hurrying back to the grounds,
painted this sign,
spoke to a sculptor friend who crafted these hands,
and days later on collecting them, ran back up the hill
with his box of props and adhesive,
stuck these praying hands to the statue himself,
arranged the sign and the glass jar
containing the rosary,

then satisfied,
stood back
to behold his creation

Carlinda D'Alimonte