La Milagrosa
La Milagrosa
She’s wearing a gold crown. Her feet are bare.
Flickering in a makeshift kitchen shrine
with Guadalupe and some Tupperware,
she lights my way for a dollar ninety-nine.
These Catholic candles are a quirk of mine.
I’ve shaken off my fetters, set down my cross,
jettisoned the Roman albatross.
But in the dry goods aisle, she looked divine
among the rice and beans, her highbeam-hands
flooding the world with mercy from above.
It’s good to have her here, beside the stove.
She knows I don’t believe. She understands.
She’s wearing a gold crown. Her feet are bare.
Flickering in a makeshift kitchen shrine
with Guadalupe and some Tupperware,
she lights my way for a dollar ninety-nine.
These Catholic candles are a quirk of mine.
I’ve shaken off my fetters, set down my cross,
jettisoned the Roman albatross.
But in the dry goods aisle, she looked divine
among the rice and beans, her highbeam-hands
flooding the world with mercy from above.
It’s good to have her here, beside the stove.
She knows I don’t believe. She understands.
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