Agnus Dei
LINDA ANN LOSCHIAVO
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi,
miserere nobis,
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi,
dona nobis pacem.
-- Prayer during the Ordinary of the Mass
Repent in Lent is what you do, transfixed
On misery, if you’re good. I’m bad, dabbing
At my plain muslin singing, notes in my
Throat never high as my imagination,
My humble alto swept along like rapids,
Pink resonance and gold harmonics, sounds
A family might make if happy, music
Already giving them another heart
To eat. In Brooklyn, spring was still a new
Idea; pavements warm as lived-in bodies
Were pushing up loud daffodils, stick thin
Crab apples were a sudden cloudburst of
White fluff now petaling my path, and those
Immaculate wool puffs smudging the sky
Tap “Agnus Dei,” the sopranos poised for
World sins -- peccata mundi -- where they go
Up, wired, full of temporal arrangements,
Against determined organ pipes. Across the
Wide, busy avenue, my schoolmate Agnes
Is bouncing a ball to a litany
Of rhymes, right leg up, under, her dress gay
As Easter eggs although it’s Passiontide
And Tuesday, a night for the Sorrowful
Five Mysteries. I’m tempted -- but no one’s
Around to cross me and I’m late returning
From choir practice, rushing to do errands
For mother, mainlining more anguish through
Soap operas than in the Stations of
The Cross. That Spaldeen’s bubblegum pink (a
Sweet mouthful sacrificed for Lent), as bouncy
As my friend, all shorn of our solemn school’s
Drab uniform, some bright bit, gold, around her
Neck -- locket, maybe -- hung, swung like a target
While she played, all unaware of my wave,
Blue eyes on the ball even when it rolled
Off into traffic. Conchshells, painted dead
White, point the way to her door, just like ours,
Though nothing’s the same inside, and I wish
I was one for forgetting. Sorrow tonight,
After our supper, “Scourging at the Pillar,”
Where Jesus, spotless, guiltless, is then beaten
For others’ sins returns me to my oyster
Shell, hard home where I dwell with grains of sand,
Intruders I coat with a glaze to make their
Existence not so scratchy, making it
All easier to slip around till I’m good
And ready for that opening up. From
My curb, I can see over the hill where
A slope rose like a hunch, a humpback whale
Mid-block, fun to sled or bike over if
You dared, no grassy knoll this trellis-topped
Train trench, this urban hillside, its blank broken
Face blocking vehicles, cars gunning for
You with their solid metal presence in your
Immediate future, taking action
That could recast the universe in dark
Unpredictable ways. An oiltruck now
Is speeding, westbound, towards us, windshield coated
With weather, Agnes chasing her ball, bent
Low, smaller, in its path. All open my
Mouth, three notes rising -- “God! Run!” -- wired open
Unable to hold words in my mind, my
Prayer brittle as glass. Nothing lived in it,
No rescue, no child. “Your fault!” I can hear
My mother say. “What good are you?” I’m bad,
So useless, and invisible, in shock,
Observing Agnes, on the ground, mouth open,
Like mine, as a red cartoon balloon forms, and
A scream sat in my throat, raw, where I swallow,
Replaying the black revolution she
Took under such a fat front tire, ragdoll
In Easter pastels, virgin-martyr namesake
Saint Agnes slain at 12, an “older woman,”
Mature compared to us. A wave of people
Near her house closes off my view, adults
Who stood around before, all doing nothing,
Gape now for free and drown my sobs with buzzing,
Excited, empty. Two policemen write
On pads as a tall truck driver stands, head
In hands, like Jesus in “The Agony in
The Garden,” thinking maybe of her or an
Abyss he glimpsed with no sweet remedy
Of light, azaleas swollen with potential
That Agnes never got to see. At home,
I’m speechless, normally, a hostage to
The dinners I eat to get rid of them and,
Since Lent is fast and abstinence, there’s a
Sad bouquet: pink and purple tentacles
On my plate, curving, curled like weapons, as the
Dream daughter I become makes short cuts, clams
Up, pleading “mouth full!,” Latin quiz tomorrow,
And bold strokes I’ll unload on Saturday in
Confession as lies. Agnes is with our
Redeemer. If I were good, truly, I’d
Be comforted but I’m not, questions all
Suspended, Damocles’s sword, tight roped
With sorry knowledge and memories ripe
As rotten cheese, my lost friend weaving through me
Like silk who met her dye. At bedtime, it’s
A different dark waiting, grave, on-going
Sounds in my mind, truth tied up like a hobo
Sack I could run away with once, my private
Core ripped with wanting, having, not having.
An innocent, dear Agnes, not like those
Kicked early out of Paradise, always poised
For trouble and braced for what’s coming at us.
