Szent István Basilica

There is something in my stomach
that claws at the tender flesh,
a sadness that wants to crawl up
through my throat and drip
down my face- but it stays

I want a mind like this-
marbled, stenciled and embossed
one that shines like the gold that
decadently leads to the pinnacles of the dome

I want to hold God in my burning red lantern
but the only thing I have to pray for is a fire
and the votives are ironic- small, white and safe

I wonder what connects Budapest to San Diego
or Malibu’s flaming hill- on the train I saw
the fire in the leaves, a courageous final
cry before obliterated by the bleakness

I, am heavy like the plaited
candelabra beautiful and rooted to stone
here the smell of frankincense dances with
the dampness of rain, the air cool and marble
clean but cannot reach inside me

So I pray to be released, to be like the
stone carved Christ that appears to float
in a still room. A cross holds a candle askew
and suddenly hope strikes my stomach,
in the battle of frost and fire
perhaps the former will succeed