In Nomine Umbrae

She bows where Ave haunts the stone,
Where frankincense has kissed the beams.
But in her chest, beneath the bone,
An older rhythm splits her dreams.

She chants the creed, her veil is pressed,
She dips her hands in sacred oil.
Yet feels beneath the alb her chest
Still hum with nettle, ash, and soil.

She knows the feast of bread and wine,
The holy wash, the saints’ refrain.
But threads a thorn in every line,
And tastes the iron under rain.

Two liturgies within her breath:
One sung in gold, one hissed in dirt.
She bears them both, not unto death,
But like a psalm that leaves a hurt.

A hidden flame, a bowl of thread,
A jawbone buried near the nave.
She guards the spells her grandma said,
And names the herbs they never gave.

She flouts no rite, she swears no creed,
She walks the aisle and grips the stone.
Yet when the candle starts to bleed,
She prays in tongues the Church disowns.

By day, a woman clothed in white,
By night, a voice in salt and smoke.
Not lost, but led by second sight,
Through gates the holy never spoke.