It’s a sin to lust after the Virgin Mary, even though her face beguiles us with its half-closed eyelids, even though her bodice threatens to spill open, even though her halo twinkles like a lighthouse in search of a sailor. There are reasons for this: She has an image to keep up. She has to keep her mind focused on losing a son and gaining the World. She’s almost too fragile for words, let alone acts of volition, of natural human passion, everything denied her. Longing is a lantern that shines modestly within, where it stays. It’s a sin to want this, to want to undrape the muslin that covers her hair, to want to look far enough into her eyes that she’ll have to look back. It’s a sin to look for her in every woman on the street, the ones who waft by behind the wheels of minivans, the ones who pass you in stairwells, leaving their aroma of powder, of frankincense, a vague glow illuminating the air behind them.