The Paris Review

There in the shrine at Lourdes
Embellished with old crutches, splints, and canes
(Freely abandoned by the cured,
The scoured of sins, the shorn and healed of pains)

It is said the Madonna once
Cloaked in compassionate blue and full of grace,
Showed up from nowhere there in France,
Conferring a special virtue on that place;

And that at scattered sites
Throughout the world (though only, be it said,
Where the faithful worshiped and their rites
All were observed) appearances were made.

Yet Alphonse Ratisbonne,
Alsatian, Jewish, yearning to dodge the heat
Of a pitiless Roman summer sun,
Stepped into S. Andrea’s cool retreat

Where all his banker’s wiles
Deserted him as the Virgin made her pitch;
And in a swoon he bequeathed piles
Of bullion, portfolios, bright baubles of the rich

To a joyful Holy See,
Twice gladdened by the compound benefit
When soul and bottom line agree,
All carnal/spiritual “savings” soundly knit.

But here in the USA
What have we got to compete with such grand stuff?
Well, in our own provincial way
We have had sightings; few, but stirring enough,

Along the New York State
Thruway, a figure (sometimes with a guitar)
Pompadoured, patient, prepared to wait
For the destined approach of some appointed car,