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A.J.’s Passage

ISSUE:  Winter 1991
Poor baby, hold on;
poor sleepy baby, passed into my arms.
We are passing into hell; hold on.
We renounce the forces of evil
and you cry out.

Poor, sleepy baby,
wanting nothing more than the food
your mother has become
for you, wanting to go down
into this night at her breast.

Now we are returning
and brilliance catches your eye;
a lit candle
in your mother’s hand, her hair
a halo, your fingers

Poor baby, our words wash over you
and you brush them away.
You want the candle now,
and you want your mother.
It is not yet time
to follow her into the dark.

Poor little baby;
water on your hair,
chrism on your forehead,
dried milk on your chin.
Poor brave little baby; hold on.


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