Holy Thursday Pilgrimages

We never made it to the seven churches
on those freezing Holy Thursday nights.

Spring may have sprouted on the calendar
but not tonight. This was no pilgrimage

to a humid Jerusalem upper room.
The drowsy street lights gave off

scant light and smoke struggled to escape
from shabby bungalows and three flats.

But neighborhood pilgrims who passed us
on the streets seemed as if they wore incense.

Every church we visited was dark except for the side
altar where there was an epiphany of light.

The noonday-bright monstrance was locked up
as if Jesus were sleeping.

The altar was bursting with violet, purple,
and rose pink, all the colors of a lingering Lent.

The prayers of the faithful—processing in and
out—sounded like a weary organ. Jacob’s angels but

no ladder anywhere to climb up to heaven.

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This poem also appears in the March 2023 issue of U.S. Catholic (Vol. 88, No. 3, page 8). Click here to subscribe to the magazine.