First Mass in 51 years—probably last—
for a bent matriarch
and handful of her family huddled inside.
Col-lab-o-ra-tor . . . col-lab-o-ra-tor . . .
The bell tolls in five ring bursts
col-lab . . . col-lab . . . co-lab-o-ra-tor . . .
a steel tongue prelude for the Orthodox chant
rising from the chapel’s blue and white walls.

In her thirties Aphrodite P. named resistance
members, snitching, stitching swastikas
on Nazi uniforms.
After the war, neighbors shunned her.
Not forgetting the black cloth she’d sewn,
including the robes of a hireling priest,
whose melodious chants

    assure her entry into heaven, 
      reversing the lonely hell

she wove on earth by crossing the warp
— “coward, coward, coward” —
(sung by her inner inquisitor)
with the woof
— “traitor, traitor, traitor” —
(shuttled by narrowed eyes, turned backs).

Col-lab-o-ra-tor . . . col-lab-o-ra-tor . . .

col-lab . . . col-lab . . . col-lab-o-ra-tor . . .
A bellwether staccato overture,
perhaps, for entering a heaven big enough
for Aphrodite and Hitler