All Saints' Day

At the All Saints’ Day Parade,
A host of the blessed
March down the boulevard, a creek
Of meek, forthright faces
And simple tunics. Here
And there, the brown-gray array
Is augmented by a buckler, a milk-pail,
A purple robe.
Fishermen, bishops, and midwives
All pass, pleasantly enough,
Until the crush of martyrs
Comes crowding the procession’s end.
There is hollow-cheeked
Stephen, hauling
A quarry-full of stones. Clement is dragging
His anchor, and Vitus is wheeled
In a cauldron. Agatha steps gingerly,
Balancing her sliced breasts like dinner rolls
On a platter. Saint Lucy is fishing
Eyeballs out of her pocket, and I
Too find my hands digging into my slacks,
Feeling sheepishly a pen, wallet, lip balm.