The Virgin processes down
the street on her half shell of
chicken wire and novena candles
leading a dance with the sun
glinting off her glass blue veil.
The children follow her with swaying
bodies and drum beats and sweat.
They’re ecstatic with her mother bear love,
waiting to hear what she’ll tell dad about the
broken glasses and four letter words
and chicken head rituals at midnight.
She stands also, home in the yard
at our old Cape house
all electric with the cast-offs
from high tension wires;
flanked, guarded by weather
rotten post beams
and the prayer flag underwear
that flicks on the clothesline.
We sit there in that drone womb
venerating her sandblasted brow
and lighting citronella candles
from wirechair pews.
Waiting, poised with our
wine glasses and five dollar words
and long, deep talks at midnight.
Waiting, for ecstasy or mother love
or the sun to come from behind
the cool autumn clouds and flood
us in its glass-blue intercession.