Divine Grace

Her eyes sad
blue as the sea.

Mary, Mary
a name plain and simple.
No frills, no boa-feathered scarves.
Photographers clamour to take her picture
like Grace Kelly
Mary, the
Divine grace.

Saltwater slides down
gray, stone cheekbones.
Almost real.
The mother of all mothers
chosen to carry His son.
For eternity her eyes cast down
on disciples, gathering at her temple.

She stands in countless places
old and new cities, sacred villages
mountain tops grazing the heavens.
Her arms open, outstretched, empty,
as if waiting for a long-lost lover's embrace.
Waiting, waiting, waiting.

The lineups stretch for miles.
Onlookers from all over the world
come to see her face, with
holy water packed in tiny plastic bottles
stuffed into backpacks, leather purses.
A bit of heaven for the price
of a few coins.

about us ::: guidelines ::: contact ::: order ::: chapbooks ::: Monday's Poem ::: Monday's Archive


about us ::: guidelines ::: contact ::: order ::: chapbooks ::: Monday's Poem ::: Monday's Archive
Monday's Poem
		© 2011 Sonia Saikaley Sonia Saikaley has lived in Japan, where she taught English and found the solitude to write. She has also gotten lost in the alleys of Venice but found an amazing pizzeria. Now, in Ottawa, Canada, she finds herself surrounded by her big Lebanese family and amidst the chaos and joy, she writes. Her writing has been published in The Caterpillar Chronicles, Maple Tree Literary Supplement, the anthology Lavandería - A Mixed Load of Women, Wash, and Word, and other publications.
Divine Grace Her eyes sad blue as the sea. Mary, Mary a name plain and simple. No frills, no boa-feathered scarves. Photographers clamour to take her picture like Grace Kelly Mary, the Divine grace. Saltwater slides down gray, stone cheekbones. Almost real. The mother of all mothers chosen to carry His son. For eternity her eyes cast down on disciples, gathering at her temple. She stands in countless places old and new cities, sacred villages mountain tops grazing the heavens. Her arms open, outstretched, empty, as if waiting for a long-lost lover's embrace. Waiting, waiting, waiting. The lineups stretch for miles. Onlookers from all over the world come to see her face, with holy water packed in tiny plastic bottles stuffed into backpacks, leather purses. A bit of heaven for the price of a few coins. about us ::: guidelines ::: contact ::: order ::: chapbooks ::: Monday's Poem ::: Monday's Archive