BLACK SPOT, RED SPOT

The black spot Saint Julianna of Liege
saw in a vision, floating on the white
and perfect surface of the moon, unsullied then
by telescopes or craters, knowing it was more

than something in her eye, a message from
the Virgin Mary, lamenting at the lack
of a feast of Corpus Christi. The red spot
appearing on the calendar, another red

letter day. The waxy flattened globe
of the host, rising like a moon,
bowed down and sung to. The new feast
sanctioned by Pope Urban V, convinced

by spots of blood on communion bread, drifting
red spores of Bacillus Prodigious
spread by people gathered in His name,
piled too close together.

The soon discovered crime
of deicide, the Body of Christ
bit by unlawful teeth or used in some
dreamt up satanic mass. The ashes spread

in city squares, those found guilty
of killing God, whole families at a time,
possessions to the church, bodies burning
in pious sacrifice, turning black and red.