There's Venus, Diana Nemorensis, Even Mary Magdalene, But The Virgen's Still The Queen Poem by Shannon Walker

There appeared a wonder in Heaven;
The New Jerusalem was coming out of the sky,
And it was so hard to see at first, the Assumption in reverse,
That I didn't know whether to scream in terror, or cry;
The Virgen Mother of God was burning my eyes.

I tried to think of anything, some passage or verse
That could justify this blasphemy;
I was consumed by desire, no care for hell or fire,
Just the knowlege that where once, I was whole, I was empty,
And I stared at the crescent moon beneath her feet

And shivered; it was so cold, and I was so tired,
And there were so many ways for this to go so horribly
Wrong; judged for my lecherous heart, cast asunder and torn apart;
I could plead stupid and go for purgatory,
Spend the next hundred thousand years in a lifeless rock quarry,

Or if God's a joker, the produce section of a cosmic Wal Mart.
That's hell; kids, cucumbers, and cellulite.
Then, the sleet started; it covered the ground. I looked around;
It was everywhere, everything was iced over, so white,
And calm, and numb. I thought of that long good night.

Maybe I had crossed over; there was no sound,
Just awe and wonder at this ephemeral breach
That descended on me like a blanket, or a fog bank, it
Was eerie, and there, the Virgen hung just out of reach.
For what seemed like an eternity until the scene changed with the screech

Of an owl, and I knew that this was Bridget,
The air; shimmering beneath her blackened and trembling
Fairy wings, like gasoline vapor, or the sand in Palm Springs,
Her eyes; just a little sad, and as she hung there glistening,
I fell to my knees and tried, with all that was within me,

To reach out and touch the Virgen Queen.