They are the Black Madonnas
Housed in churches of Europe,
Incandescent shrines
Where pilgrims burn away bothering sins,
Repair broken bodied souls.

The dark statues channel miracles
From Mary and her son
Sacrificed so that they can see light
In the New World.

Echoes of the risen are not confined in shrines
They are flesh, blood, bones and tears,
Dark skinned priestesses carrying spears,
Whose sons have been taken away.

Black Madonnas atone for our lapses.
They cook breakfast then pluck cocks,
Iron bedsheets, stitch socks.

With open eyes they steal reading,
Charcoal in hand they learn writing,
Disguised in men lead captives to freedom,
Eyes focused on a just kingdom.