Santa Milagrita

Here’s a heart cut out like
a cookie made of tin, ringed

and pierced with holes: through
it, the light shines— like

ornament, like a bauble wrapped
in foil. Its cold fluted layers

gleam and pleat, like the halo
of a small town saint who’s made

good and come back to a hero’s
welcome: so many tokens at her

feet, so many supplicants in
parade. The traffic never stops

at her wayside shrine: bring me
back my lover, my daughter, my

mother, that life of promised
ease. Here, in exchange, all

these glittering anatomies:
fingers, arms, legs; an eye,

an ear— parts we would lop
off gladly; if only, if only.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.