This morning I was served tamales
By a woman who’d been beaten
Near the street where eight crosses made of marigolds
Against the impact
Of the ignorant
On the innocent.
In the church
Crosses of flowers and flickering candles
carpet the floor of the empty church.
At the feet of the virgin
a lone Indian man kneels, weeping silently,
his sombrero by his side.
His bundles surround him
and his tears, running down ageless cheeks,
are illuminated by her neon crown.
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