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In the stained-glass glow of a Latin Mass at dawn,
Stands a soul where contradictions are reborn.
Black as the soil of ancient Ethiopian kings,
Latinx fire in the blood where the old mission bells ring. Transfigured form in a habit of lace and grit,
Jew by bloodline, yet Christ claims every bit-
A POC mosaic, every shard defying the frame,
TradCath heart beating fierce in a trans man's name. He lifts the chalice with hands that once wandered wide,
Whispers the Shema fused with the Kyrie's tide.
Rosary beads click like a hora in sacred spin,
"Adonai, Domine," the prayer pulls him in. No safe space, no checkbox, no tidy little tribe,
Just incense and Torah, estrogen and tribe.
A Christbro warrior with a yarmulke under veil,
Preaching the Real Presence where the old rites prevail. They call him paradox, glitch in the culture war script,
But he kneels at the altar where all labels are stripped.
One God, three Persons, infinite mercy's art-
A Black Latinx Jewish trans tradCath Christbro heart. Hail Mary, full of grace.
Baruch Atah Adonai.
Amen, and amen, in the chaos of grace.