la virgin
was not for me
but for young
girls who lifted
their eyes
to watch her empty
gaze, her son
in her arms.
she was la madre
de dios and, in turn,
she became their
mother. a mother
who appeared
to request churches
built for her son.
what mother of
theirs wanted a
monument build in
their honor?

the mothers here
worked aching fingers
to the sound of sewing
machines, or asked
can i take your order?
to families with more money
than theirs. a child was
precious in the belly, a burden
later. niña querida became
a phrase used for the ears
of others.

the plastic virgin was so
worn from soft hands
touching, caressing.
the pincushion heart
she held turned pink
with age. i remember the day
i turned the picture of
la virgin on my wall backwards
so she could not see me
touch myself, could
not see my blood spill
out from between
fingers clenched around
a razorblade.

around here the girls
cared only for maria.
jesus was always supposed
to be numero uno, right?
it just happened that
she had birthed him,
immaculate conception,
she had not aborted him
as their mothers wished
they had aborted them.
sometimes.
on long nights before
work, taking care
of sick little girls whose
fingers curved tight,
brows waxy.

i have my blank walls
and they have their cards
of la virgin threaded
between their fingers. not
in sleep but as their
life slips out the door.