Poetic license provoked
By some Catholics view
That sexual abuse by priests can be
Reduced to homosexuality, or gayness;
That the young ones are willing accomplices;
By testimonies of eight seminarians against Father
Founder and Superior General of the Legion of Christ;
By pro-Maciel defense and adulation of him and his mother;
By early LC history in northern Spain where first rumors arose;
and inspired by walking the streets participating in Seville’s Holy Week processions, 2003.
Approaching the Cristo de Burgos
For you I did penance and cried;
On the corner of Sales-Ferr,
Spied procession of Servite friars;
Amid Trappist, Jesuit suspicions,
First Legionary adolescent needs,
-Bay of Cobreces, story Foundation-
Solace seeking with willowy priest.
In their budding homo-curiosity
-Close I to Granada’s meet,
Home to Federico de Gay-
Their spiritual father in sheets?
Now one was robust and quite virile,
The other with sweet baby face,
A third was a fair-haired blue-eyes,
The next with a delicate grace.
They all had one thing in common
As for the seminary they signed:
To be fondled, aroused and pleasured,
Aye, ravished by their Father benign.
So facing the float of Dolores
Descending the narrowing street,
With long brown candles burning
Their hands peak-capped Nazarenes,
I prayed for the Christ of Cotija
Stretched across his mother’s knee,
Grieving for her Jesus Maciel,
Broken, betrayed and bereaved.
They created the Myth of Abuser;
Accused him of tempting to prey;
Their saintly, innocent, Pastor,
True victim of calumnies vain.
Now one was quite strong and most virile;
The other, a round baby-face;
A third was handsome and blue-eyed
The fourth with a delicate grace.
Unbeknownst to their ignorant parents
-What little perverts they had raised! –
Had gone to the order with one plan:
His chaste body defile and debase.
The float forced its path through the lane-way,
Fairly crushing all bones to the wall,
My senses bewildered with brocade
Gold and silver, incense and pall.
Through the haze the halting procession,
Wending its way through the throng,
Cavorting, provocative altar boys,
All of eleven years tall.
When I tried to imagine their malice,
Fathom the evil they bore,
I coldly considered the victim?
And burst into sobs for their souls.
So I wept for the blue-eyed conspirator,
And the boy with the soft baby-face;
For the virile, athletic and strong one,
And the one with a delicate grace.
They had come to the order with one mind:
To deceive the immaculate priest.
Were they wolves in babes’ simple clothing?
Or prey to a Wolf and a Beast?
In the Glorious City of Seville,
Cradle of Christopher’s Commission
And Torquemada’s Holy Inquisition.
Poetic license provoked