Poem for Saturday, November 2, 2013

Virgen

We have few things here--no long Indian
summers, no window-toothed skyscrapers,

no lights, almost. There is one string
of lights between the moon and the ground

coiled around the Virgen de Guadalupe,
her holiness boxed in glass to protect her

hands, to keep them soft, white, clasped
in prayer through this black November

night. She catches you strolling by her
street, beckons you, and suddenly you

are standing  in front of her with your hands
in your pockets. You think of all the drifters

here in town and recall those childhood
stories of saints clad in tattered clothes

and panhandling angels. Through the glass,
she tells you to not be fooled--none are

like that, all of them are very much men,
most of them godless. You remember then

how her heart was broken the hardest,
turn around, continue into the dark.