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Mary’s puffy crows feet
have been crying
about the world again,
she misled us all.

How in the hell
did that painter
jot her down so fast,
before she could get her makeup
on like normal?

I’ve seen those Hollywood epics
with their false street preachers
rubbed in bone dust
on every damned corner.

I’ve seen their ladies
with the lovely hair
all done up
the quiet, rosaciaed one
smiling moronically at God
with clean, clear eyes
is not Mary.

These are Mary’s glum dark
bleary eyes like unfortunate sky-cataracts,
her filthy horned hands.