Poetry Spotlight | “The Saints are Sad” by Theresa MacDonald

The Saints are Sad 

Is it true that no one prays anymore?

The two of us
standing side by side
Streaming dust particles
dancing in the light overhead,
Dust cut by the saints of colored glass
standing guard at the windowpanes

You know,
I mean—
like the marble guys—
those saints with their curtain-draped clothing,
mostly men, standing or bending,
looking out vacantly
at no one in particular.

Maybe it was different in the old days,
when these beings were carved from blocks of marble
by someone who saw a holy space
in the crack or color of the stone.
Not the same—
moving down a factory line
in pieces
separated arms and legs apart.

A marble thing is not a saint.
It’s just an object to look at
to think holy thoughts
and call it a prayer.

Waiting for a miracle,
like the nuns told us about:
if you were good enough,
and holy enough,
and…
Maybe…

Just maybe,
if my rosary beads
had not gone through the washing machine that day,
I could start fresh again.

Without sin.