Issue 125, Winter 1992
I was prevented by a sort of shame from going
into churches . . . Nevertheless, I had three
contacts with Catholicism that really counted.
1. In Portugal
One night in Portugal, alone in a forlorn
village at twilight, escaping her parents,
she saw a full moon baptized on the water
and the infallible heavens stained with clouds.
Vespers at eventide. A ragged procession
of fishermen’s wives moving down to the sea,
carrying candles onto the boats, and singing
hymns of heartrending sadness. She thought:
this world is a smudged blue village
at sundown, the happenstance of stumbling
into the sixth canonical hour, discovering
the tawny sails of evening, the afflicted
religion of slaves. She thought: I am
one of those slaves, but I will not kneel
before Him, at least not now, not with
these tormented limbs that torment me still.