At St. Malachy’s Church

Paula Cunningham

I came to light a candle for a friend
but Jesus had a really bad mustache
and those were only pinpricks in his palms
so I passed on.

I came to light a candle for a friend
but Joseph’s hands were manicured
and soft as Fairy Liquid hands
I could not light one there so I passed on.

In the corner was a fellow with a cowled robe
and a tonsure like a saucer — he palmed
a young and curly blonde Adonis — so I
passed on then to Benoît-Joseph Labre,

a tattered man whose wide eyes blazed,
he looked quite mad, had beggar’s hands,
I liked him. I lit two dozen candles, didn’t pay,
and nicked this book on him before I left.

I did all this in honor of my matchless absent friend,
whose honest calloused workman’s hands
maintained the half of Belfast,
and nothing’s been the same since he passed on.