poems

Amen

The drone and lilt of rosaries
rises through the crisp night air.
There is a velorio down the street.
I imagine a casket laid out
on the dining room table and the low
voices finding solace in the endless
repetition of Ave Maria all night long.
Llena de gracia, full of grace, I wonder
if the soul flies easier through the candle
light, caught for a moment in that harsh
mix of freedom and grief, before bursting
past walls and raw cement ceiling out into
the cloudy darkness. El Señor es contigo,
The Lord is with Thee, and I wonder if the soul
notices me wondering at him, as he soars off past
the rustling pines, the crickets’ chorus
calling rain, and the heavy ripe moon
pointing the way between rumbling clouds.
Pray for us sinners now and at the hour
of our death. Ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora
y en la hora de nuestra muerte, and the rain drops
begin, ping ping, echoing off the metal laminate
rooftop of the neighbor, and the world is washed clean.


So Loved

My hands smell like fabric softener
as I scrub away at baby clothes,
and as always, the village revolves
around prayers – the big prayers blaring
from the church loudspeaker, and the little
prayers mumbled over laundry and dishes.
Bells ring and a procession winds its way
through the streets with the santisima,
the holy of holies, or maybe just a big gold
thing with a communion wafer in it.
I’m never sure. Here the prayers
are more humble. There are no golden rays
or flower arrangements, just a fleeting
look to God, to Mother and the thumping
of my own heart, praying to know
that I am so loved, that I could feel
the holy of holies in my own hands even
as I scrub away at baby clothes.