Friday the 13th

by christycelia

In the Templo Conventual de Santo Domingo de Guzmán

 

I’m sitting here with
my catholic ghosts
the ones who stood at the
arch
look of irritation and
guard all at once
the ones who filled the cup
behind closed doors
dark in prayer.

They are with me now, but
enclosed behind gold
murmurings of the father in the gated next enclave over.
Axe murdering saw
going in and out.

I cannot hear your prayers –
Poblanos in the next pew
and if I could hear,
I could not understand
why the barefooted 5 year old must
stand atop her brothers shoulders
while they both juggle and swerve
through the cars.
“Street performers.”
Crosses the street better than me.

I do not feel a part of
anything in this
tall empty golden
Here
are fathers stacked to the ceiling
halos hovering above each one’s head.
Here
are gold plated everythings
all down to lionbabies
and soon my glazed over eyes
will also be gold.
Here
a man tells of the church
the golden chapel
Mary behind glass
her dress fanned farther than
her wingspan.

 

Stacked to the ceiling.

Stacked to the ceiling.

Mary (?) behind glass.

Mary (?) behind glass.

The ceiling in the Capilla del Rosario.

The ceiling in the Capilla del Rosario.

Gated Jesus.

Gated Jesus.

In the Capilla del Rosario. "Ave Maria," always makes me think of Betta.

In the Capilla del Rosario. “Ave Maria,” always makes me think of Betta.

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