By Sofia Lago

 

At the fringes of Cour des miracles,

a man shouts for God, for His

select few chosen, and

all those sinners, amen.

 

Inside, there’s a mad woman

who kneels in prayer,

dressed in unwashed rags, and says,

 

“Dear Mother,

I should have been a nun.”

 

Mother’s dead, and Mary gives no answer.

Not Mother Mary, but Marie.

A graceless Magdalene.

 

Mad Marie, with her dress torn ragged,

accepts a rich man’s coin,

and strips until she’s naught but skin.

 

All the while,

a man shouts for God in aristocratic French,

and Mad Marie’s lowly prayer

is pressed hard against tightly shut lips.

 

The brothel is her parish,

and smells thickly of the human body,

and masculine completion.

 

Outside, a man speaks of predestination and sin,

and Mad Marie thinks,

 

“Damn you, sir, and all your words of wisdom.”

 

He exhausts himself by night, as priests do,

but rich men’s appetites are insatiable.

 

Jesus and God have a list of sins to last for days, but

one can never claim that the residents of

Cour des miracles have succumbed to sloth.

 

Morning breaks pale and bleak

over the streets of Cour des miracles,

where Mad Marie Magdalene

sleeps away the sunrise.

 

Sofia Lago recently graduated from Stockton University with a B.A. in historical studies. She previously published her poem “Yard Sale for Dreams” in Folio, and intends to name her future cat Toulouse.