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Mary Barnard

Your identity unknown.

Perhaps yourself the victim

of an unfinished project,

a folder on the Cardinal’s desk

your almost complete dossier:

a beatific vision unalibi’ed,

an unproven proof that your miracle

done with mirrors.

Dear Uncanonized Saint FP,

Hike up your heavenly skirts

and skip back down to earth

in your Timberlakes or Wellies,

the LED glow of your caged worklight

pray let it illumine the workbench, the shed,

the cardboard box in the closet,

the sealed plastic tub under the bed.

Deliver all souls from temptation

of the new, at the end of your name day

only this, the italicized sigh of one word