Saturday, November 2, 2013
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.
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