For the Mothers of the Plaza De Mayo

You are all that shines
in a church of gold
hermana mia
circling the white stones
a public rosary walked in silence
before La Casa Rosada
once built to save the city
from invaders borne by water
now the presidential palace
armed against its citizens

At three-thirty Thursday's bells sound
within the common hollows of your varied lives
and call you to this common space
Sisters in uniform straighten up
guarded against their kinship with you
incredibly one is pregnant
her swollen belly's fruit
pressed against a belt of smooth bullets
she fingers through white gloves
Once your hands held beads round and full
of life not death--
sons and daughters, lovers, friends
one by one you touch them again
and again tracing the sharp contours of pain
you whose rosary would rub
any other's fingers to the bone
you who will not let go
you are all that shines
in a church of gold
hermana mia

In the canons of the church of gold
holy women disappear
into virgin niches
without blood, without sweat
to taint their perfect obedience
unable to weep
or taste saltstains of love and fear
their eyes are trained away
from such things
rapt in contemplation through a veil of dust
no winds, no words can stir
But you do not let go
as insistent tongues of fire
sear your dreams
like butts of lighted cigarettes
burn off the haze of sleep each day
as the sun beats memories across your face
your vigilance is only firmer
in the wild distraction of your heart
the darkness cannot seize your hope
even with a golden crozier at its side
you are all that shines
hermana mia

Kicked onto a concrete floor
against a steel door shattered and heaved
through the long darkness
our light has disappeared with their bodies
at the bottom of the sea
only to rise in your eyes
hermana mia

What bread do you break
you who are broken a thousand times
and remain whole?
What wine has burned your lips
clean of hatred?
I cannot live without it
hermana mia

With the bottom of the sea
in your eyes
and the cup of heaven in your hands
come in your red vestments
the color of death will be the color of joy
one day
hermana mia

Yours is the bread
yours is the wine
if you do not celebrate
there can be no communion
I am not worthy to receive you
but only say the words
and I shall be healed
hermana mia

Hermana mia

Heidi Neumark was completing her final year of seminary in Buenos Aires, Argentina when this poem appeared.