Richard St. John: Maria’s Song
An old story: the girl was pregnant, had spent
the night on the streets of Washington. It looked like
she’d come for a green card, or maybe to get warm
and to sneak our office bathroom. We never do this,
but I let her in. “I’m here to see my aunt, she works
to keep clean this building.” “They’re only here at night,”
I explained. But there was something luminous
about her. Even the Congressman saw it
as he passed through. She was crying, then,
but when she calmed, we sent her down
with an aide and pass to peek for a moment
into the chambers. But she didn’t stop at the parted door –
she must have seen her aunt, cleaning something spilled
in the west aisle, and who could’ve guessed, the timid girl
barreled right in, with a host of House guards
scurrying behind; they paused, though – the human
weight of it – as the two embraced. That’s when, I’m told,
the girl broke into her crazed and terrifying song.
From Each Perfected Name by Richard St. John (Truman State). Reprinted in Vox Populi by permission of the author.
Reblogged this on Site Title and commented:
Wonderful poem by my friend Rick St. John.
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