Glazier

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You can’t be afraid of cuts, she says, 
showing her hands 
beautiful with scars. 

She works with gloves on, 
protected from glass slivers hidden 
in the wood table’s grain. 

But on occasion, she sweeps her hand 
over the table’s surface 
and snags the fabric of her skin. 

A hazard of the profession, 
a few cells in exchange 
for the privilege of dying light 

different colors—the blue folds 
of Mary’s robe, the red of Jesus’ blood, 
the milk of his skin 

when he’s pulled 
from the brown cross, the green 
stems of lilies announcing: Life. 

All these hues paint your face 
the colors of reverence, 
whether you believe or no, 

as you sit or kneel in church, any 
church. Perhaps an old abbey with tall 
columns, hunky punks, a rose window, 

and sunlight 
genuflecting through clouds 
to worship at the altar of her art.