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a poem for fr. frank

Today, I read an article about a Catholic priest, who instead of burying

an aborted fetus, videotaped it on an alter, saying that this is why America needs to vote

for Trump.

He said he was given it for burial, and instead exploited it.

He used the developing fetus for a political move, instead of honoring it, his life-affirming mission a bold face lie.

He tweeted afterwards,

A picture of the Virgin Mary, with the hashtag #ImWithHer.

Now, I can’t say to know who Mary would have voted for,

But I do know she was a young teen, pregnant, and given the impossible choice,

How can a young girl say no to an all powerful god?

Or, darker, yet more likely,

How could the young girl say no to the old man she was betrothed to, sold to, like the sacrificial dove? Someone had to be a symbol, why not her.

The church is founded on the sexual exploitation of children.

We have buried it, told the Children that they are carrying gods among men, that it will be our holy secret, that they will be blessed, that this is a blessing, it means they are chosen.

I imagine the young Mary, hoping that maybe she won’t give birth to a girl, a girl who would be bought and used, and raped,

that maybe she will be blessed with a son.

Perhaps, Mary knew, 2000 years ago, that rape, even spousal rape, did not change her status of religiously upheld virginity,

and her proclamation that she was a virgin mother, was an act of rebellion.

that if she could not chose her pregnancy, she would chose her divinity.

 

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