Poem: What does the bag lady give up for Lent?

she hugs the edge
of pew set in shadow
uncoveted by the pious
and shifts her bones
to rearrange ache,
wipes her nose
frosted in scab
on an unkind sleeve,
swims in the pain
of throbbing corns
signaling rain,
cradles in her lap
her lifeline sack,
maternal as a tiger.

does she,
as the priest exhorts,
promise to fast
for 40 days?
does she,
for Jesus' sake,
offer up butter on popcorn
colored bubbles in her
evening bath?
does she,
with Joan-of-Arc zeal,
abstain from cream
in her breakfast coffee
and Pepperidge Farm muffins
of apple and spice,
and the necessary dab
of chived sour cream
on her daily baked potato?

does she
make all things new
by rising at five
from cool, crisp sheets
of patterened rose
to sink in prayer
in Persian nap?
does she walk the other mile
at Friday Stations
in tight safe slippers
avoiding the blood?
does she
send her cloak
as Martin of Tours
to prove she is sister
to one who shivers?

what can Lent mean
to one who sits sleeping
in the last back pew,
sits dreaming of warmth
and fresh rye bread,
sits unheeding through
let-us-greet and reflect
and adore and repent
and clasp hands in peace?
what can she tithe
of secrets stored
in the paper vault,
scorned by thief
ignored by moth?
one-tenth of a can
of kippered sardines,
black oozing banana,
Saltine clones
immaculately conceived
hermetically sealed
astutely retrieved
from a discarded bowl
of chili at Wendy's?

what can she share
except her inch
of crucifix?

By Ethel Marbach as printed in the St. Anthony Messenger, April 1982