Marissa McNamara

The Grace of Full Mary Hail


At our hour, Pray for us,

our muffled whisper words

slipping out of windows like smoke

our plastic love cups in black console holders

offering bent red straws.

Come to us, Our Lady,

Our Vanilla Car Freshener.

Dangle from the rearview.

Sway at stops. I look backward with you.

I see you on the skipping yellow lines.

Oh, Mother of Waiting,

of family trips unfinished--

Stop with us in yellow diners

Anoint us with griddle grease

Raise us up with plastic forks!

Steel is the blessed womb from which we rise

standing to kneel at your feet

heading home past curfew

to mother of perpetual waiting.

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