Mary, Hail

Baptism's holy water cannot wash off the stains of love.

The pastor declares a virgin chaste,

But my thoughts dwell on another taste;

Dipped into the water, newly baptized,

Wet clothes hug your breast, and I am paralyzed.
 

A white rose is given to you as a gift

You’re now a blossom, innocent—

But I know within you is heart impure,

For which no God possesses any cure.
 

We planted that rose in the woods we roam,

Where together we made our spot, our home.

Your fingernails, now brown with dirt,

Are wiped clean upon that dampened shirt.
 

You light your cigarette and pose,

Flicking foggy ash over the rose.
As I lean into the petals and inhale,

I smell your true religion; Mary, Hail.