Deadly Vigil by William Miller

Going to mass should be dangerous— 
fallen angels, the real blood of Christ,
stations of the endless cross.
Here in the Quarter, a few tourists drift in
and look up, amazed by the size,
the peeling plaster of the nave.
A few mistake the confessional booths
for toilets.

The priest tells about a man who
was given the last rites four times,
a career criminal with dead, black eyes.
But he found the Lord on these
marble floors, knelt at this altar rail.
He works with the homeless now and visits
on Death Row, “The Angel
of Angola.”

After the final blessing, we file out
and shake Father’s pale, Irish hand.
A cop with a Glock on his belt eyes each
one of us nervously.  Death threats?
Priests get them here. Altar boys
molested in the sacristy thirty years ago
still carry hatred, worse than any grudge
in the strongbox of memory.

The fortune tellers are out,
candles flickering on their tables.
Forbidden by the church, taxed
by the city, they offer more than
hymns, dusty prayers.  Once a month,
witches chant beneath the balconies
to drive evil spirits from the humid air,
chant and fail.