On reading of the shadow of the Virgin Mary appearing on the bathroom
floor of an auto parts store in the border town of Progreso, Texas.
At the Vatican, they’re holding high level
meetings, staying up late, worrying.
They know she’s at it again. The Virgin
Mary’s one gal who’s not gonna stay
at the Vatican Holiday Inn,
mints on the pillows, sanitary
banner across the can. The Vatican
knows the Virgin’s into kitsch,
the stuff that takes faith. I mean, Christ,
look at the mess she made at Lourdes,
the Virgin Mary night lights, snow
globes, bottle openers. But Jesus,
not again. Next time it’ll be a cathedral
built out of popsicle sticks, juice cans,
the tops of cereal boxes. But even
the Vatican can’t stop them from coming.
Around Progreso, they know
the Virgin’s pissed about those
box car crossings, Jésus and Maria dying
in the summer heat. The Virgin knows man
doesn’t live by bread alone,
that it takes more than a prayer
to cross the border. You have to
crouch down, lay low, change your-
self into a shadow. Around Progreso
they know: the Virgin Mary’s
seen some shit.