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Poem: “Veronica”



Veronica is not a name

given to many baby

girls today. She wiped

the face of Jesus at

the side of the packed-

stone street the

condemned man

trudged with his cross

rubbing his shoulder

raw on his way to the

hill. He left behind the

image of his face on

the cloth, like the

Shroud of Turin but

no need for x-rays.

Did she hang it on

the wall of her home?

Store it in a drawer?

It was certainly an

odd miracle in

which no cure was

executed. Did Veronica

and Simon the cross

carrier meet later to

trade notes or maybe

just to look into each

other’s stunned eyes

with no words to say —

then, interrupted in their

silent communion

by the angry cry of

a hungry baby, they

turn to see the

mother raise to

the infant mouth

her breast.


Patrick T. Reardon



“Veronica” originally appeared in the Write City Magazine on 4.19.17.

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