In the chapel of St. Venantius,
On a February day a thousand years ago,
The Saints depicted in the seventh-century mosaics
Looked down upon the two of us
With detatched aristocratic Roman expressions.
If they really knew the years of sadness to come
Why did they not cry out
when the Monsignor sought objection?
The priest intoned his ancient plea for God’s assistance
But I know now God was resting that day.
If my God was there he would have blessed us
With that bitter and most biting love
That fights and claws, that holds and rolls and cries and scratches.
The love that laughs long and hard
And makes for that most holy coupling.
Instead polite affection was the gift that descended upon us,
The kind often seen in quiet suburb.
The kind that is hidden soon enough
And ransomed by a coward
For loss of expectation.
The kind that died an age ago
From lack of nourishment.
One day I will return to The Lateran
And tell those set to Pair
Not to leave that bewitching place
Until a more interested God than ours
Has given his approval.