Today’s sermon will be twice as long, 
quips the visiting bishop. 
First his own low gruff sounds, 
then the halting words of his translator. 
It’s true, I’ve read, what the bishop says—
the Latin Church in the Kyiv-Zhytomyr diocese, 
small, but important. 
He works where nations cross. 
Yes, the women, he says, 
inconsolable—
Shouldn’t we stop here? 
mourn their sons, daughters, even aunts, uncles, cousins—
but he moves on to 
how Christ’s light shines brightest in darkness 
while bombings split buildings and comrades alike; 
how he has personally seen men without belief 
turn on the spot, find foxhole faith 
when a drone drops food and water. 
At the end, moved in our pews, we clap 
for this church dignitary, 
with a name, my friend whispers to me, 
all consonants, only one vowel. 
At the end. 

Bio: Maryanne Hannan