Last Evening of Lent, Père Lemieux

The vigil before Christ rose, before
the stories of women in a boat, saints
drifting to our shores, I spend
a night fighting old myths—

Marys adrift with a servant girl
and a goddess. They say
she lives on the marsh, in the rushes,
and they call her a queen.

I can see her in men's eyes,
in lines around the women's lips.
They have never known
whether to fear

or worship her. They admire
and seek to placate her with apples,
with wine—that she may stay
in the marsh and out of their husbands’ hearts.

I could blame it on the wind,
the stirring in a man's chest,
but I tell them to give
that passion to God.