Our Lady of Guadalupe

I found you at Family Dollar
Dusty, communion-white wax
in dull, statuesque glass.
Your dark face and robed form
trapped in a crinkled blue decal

While my daughters knelt
before an altar of Barbie imposters
and their dollar disco dresses,
I prayed to you, a test-drive

Psalm 97:11
“Thou knowest how trouble
and disappointment have
come to me”

You did not speak.
Jaw clenched, a broken
fan at my feet
I cast my eyes to your anti-heavens,
the fluorescent lighting overhead,
to the detritus long forgotten
on the top shelves: splitting lawn
chairs, cracked hampers, dirty teddy
bears, bearing their share
of the indignity

“Help me, Guadalupe.”
I can read, and that
is my salvation
and my curse.
I read, so I know
writing exists. I attempt it until
my mind turns sickly, a carnival
ride all but the most wretched
and sticky are willing to climb inside

“I long for love, finance and
happiness in my life. Thou
shalt hear my voice and show
me real contentment.”

Our Lady of Guadalupe,
where is Guadalupe, and why
are you standing atop a small
brown child? Is he He?
Is He sifting listlessly
through dollar Matchbox cars
farm animals and soldiers
while you seek Pine-Sol,
shower curtains, or a full-length
mirror, to see if your bare feet
are clean enough, after all
these years?

You cost more than
a dollar. No matter. So
do the false Barbies, and
your pedigree is finer, holier. I
save you, in selfish hope that
you might save me.

Do you hear? There were hundreds
of you in the bodegas of Washington
Heights, the site of my previous life,
my last wholeness, my former solidity

Sometimes, I would buy a cousin of
yours, a saint with a more intriguing
name or history. For a bath, a meal.
Frivolity, then. For shame

If you are who I think
you are, I apologize, but I still do not
believe that you are a virgin. But then
neither am I, so there’s no need for
pretense

Two weeks pass, and on my
birthday, yesterday,
I set your spine on fire. We both
know what I wish—
sorry, pray for

Birthday candles on cakes
are dangerous. I got what
I wished for. Twenty or so
years of wishing for the
same thing will do that
to a person. I forgot to wish
to keep it, is all

So I have stopped wishing,
Our Lady of Guadalupe. Yesterday,
I let your core burn, I let
your glass turn black with
smoke and disappointment

I prayed to you, despite the
fact that you wouldn’t meet
my hungry gaze. I have to
assume that you heard me,
that you are merely
considering,
considering

Meanwhile, our children—
yours and mine—wait for
us to make up our minds.
How much is too much,
here at Family Dollar?