Our Lady of the Bats
	Sabina C. Becker

t midnight, she walks
   without fear of the dark
   in the caves.

                  The bats, attracted
                 to her dusky inner light,
                 circle her head, alight

                 on her long black hair
                 and metamorphose
                 into a dark and fluttering halo.

                 On her outstretched arms,
                 raised in salute to the night,
                 they hang—

                 little Christs on a cross
                 of living flesh,
                 always able to fly free

                 before the hammer and nails
                 strike home, before the clock
                 strikes one, before the flittermice

                 fall down.