By Pandora Peoples
When Anita closes her eyes
By the fountain in her dentist’s office,
She sees the Virgin of Guadalupe
Covered in blue sky and yellow stars,
Standing between the horns of a bull,
Fresh tears from last night's clouds
Cascade down her rocky bower,
Roll down her cheeks,
And drip onto her palms in prayer,
Lacey maidenhair fern surrounds Our Lady,
And pink roses on glossy tiles
Behind her porcelain form,
Shine in the afternoon sun
Indian women with thick hair,
Pencil skirts and flats,
Sell watermelon and cantaloupe
Outside of church with their daughters,
Chopped papaya and cucumbers
Have more soul
Marinated in lemon juice and cayenne pepper,
Even wrapped in cellophane
And squirted with concentrate
From a plastic lemon grenade,
Inside a picnic basket are warm tamales,
Pink cookies with sparkles,
Cokes in glass bottles with real sugar,
And home-made, candy-coated cactus fruit
She recalls scenes from her former life,
While an exuberant fan overhead
Goes into pterodactyl over-drive,
Hypnotizing her with air-conditioning,
Humming and squawking
For the duration of her root canal,
In the waiting room
Pages of a magazine on an empty chair
Turn in quick succession
On rainy mornings with her rosaries
Gathered around her fingers,
Young and matronly in an apron,
With boat shoes on,
She plucks cilantro
And jalapeños from sandy pots by the door,
While stray dogs growl and whimper
Wandering the streets,
She waits for sunrise,
The bust she sculpted of Jesus in thorns
Hangs over her bed and
Turns orange as day breaks
Roosters crow demonically from three AM,
While rats run through holes in the houses
Of sleeping families,
And cockroaches swarm the earthen floors,
Tarantulas crawl over keys on pipe organs
In a building that clangs on the hour,
If you listen,
Through chain-linked fences,
Thieves in rags trade five-cent donuts
For the orphans' new shoes,
An orphan with nails through her bloody shoes
Is afraid to take them off,
These are the only shoes she has ever had
A pregnant teen falls to the floor
In a heap of sobs,
Motherhood is the best feeling,
She has a new life growing inside her,
Sleepless she folds the clean sheets
Into a neat pile by her bed,
Before falling asleep on familiar surface
Of the rough bare mattress
On the dock under a thatched roof,
Lime-sweet shrimp cerviche with hot sauce
Makes new men of carpenters,
A raw oyster plate turns lunch for an out-of-work musician
Into an afternoon date with God and a paper-bag-cerveza,
Barbequed tortas and tacos
Bring smiles between familiar faces,
Some too stubborn to speak broken languages
Stale bread and potato potage
Is on the menu again for the Sisters of Mercy,
With a babe on each hip,
And a class full of sixty hungry barefoot children
Whose saucer eyes long for every quiet moment
Sitting on the cement floor
With their loving teachers
Sister Anita opens her eyes,
To the smiling dentist in pale blue polyester,
She returns home with a capped tooth
And goofy, sardonic smile,
Residents have been quarantined,
It's lock-down at the Acropolis of Assisted Living,
But they still get happy hour in their rooms,
Just no religious services,
All the former nuns blame the stomach flu on Fred,
The man with the dog in 202 who still likes the ladies,
He’s always coming and going
Christ-child key chains
Dangle from fists as she scoots across the carpet,
With her walker on neon green tennis balls,
Petroleum-based beauty products
Make smooth her kind face,
Sticky round perfume gels ooze
Into a pretty dish reflected in the mirror on her vanity,
Lysol sprays and bottles of carcinogenic substances
Cover every inch of counter top and medicine cabinet
Unoccupied by baskets of fake daisies and glass geese,
With checkered bow-ties
Anita misses the marigolds on Dia De Los Muertos,
The tugging strings and blasting horns of the mariachis,
Candle-lit parades with brightly colored-costumes,
The worship of Mother Mary in every corner store,
And Los Hijos de Dios
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