Converted at twelve, I wanted a grotto
that was my own. On a niche,
halfway up curved stairs, I placed
a statue of Our Lady in White.
At her feet, a lake of candles burned
whose tiny flames lapped
her outstretched hands, the chalk cliffs
of her face. I tacked up praise,
collaged a psalm of gratitude
across cement. Quickly,
I glued a family image
amidst headlines of every imaginable disaster:
a bent license plate, a dated finger painting
of a fire, a broadsheet defending the justice
of hell,
plus a real photo menagerie
of animals retrieved, then sent back
to the local pound. Fading specimens
unfolded in low light.
Half-performance, although
not the only option, not yet.
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