Mother Cabrini dried up

long before she found Colorado. When she moved her bones rubbed together and her skin sloughed dust like a holy aura. She told her sisters, We are dizzy because we breathe the light of God and pointed to the dirt which felt most like her own body, grotto of a dormant womb which bubbled with…

Medieval saints could read hearts

like Braille. This was never the case for Mother Cabrini. As a child she put her fingers to her chest whenever there was pain and pressed into it, as if the muscle needed a reminder of the real. Perhaps she was too weak to bear the sacred. She thought of the chalice, of the font,…

In the branches of the cherry tree

Mother Cabrini is only a child. Born two months premature, she shows her sister her visible heartbeat, how it flutters the skin between her breasts. With so many small coffins buried in the orchard, it is not difficult to begin praying for bodies and find they have turned into trees. Mother Cabrini counts the twigs…